Winter
by lacemonster
Summary: [AU based on "Damian, Son of Batman" and "Batman #666"] After an injury, Bruce finally hands down the cowl to Dick. Meanwhile, Damian is struggling from his resurrection after his death by the hands of the Heretic, developing strange visions and new abilities. As time passes, Damian finds his visions growing wilder, and Dick slowly begins to lose his identity to the bat. [DickDami]
1. Prologue

**Warnings** : Explicit sexual content; underage masturbation; extremely dubious consent; age difference; moral ambiguity; angst; canon-typical violence; canonical character death; mild gore; mental instability; self-harm; more warnings may be added per chapter

 **Pairings** : Dick/Damian; references to other past relationships, including Dick/Barbara

 **Credits** : This is a non-profit, fanmade work. All characters are owned by DC. The fanfiction was written and created by me, please do not repost without my permission.

 **A/N** : This fic is ultimately its own AU but is heavily based off of the _Damian, Son of Batman_ and _Batman #666_ timelines. Those storylines might be necessary to read in order to fully understand this fanfic.

In Morrison and Kubert's fiction, Damian develops healing abilities after selling his soul to the devil after Batman's death. In the canonical events, Damian is killed by the Heretic and resurrected by Darkseid, and only has superpowers for a temporary amount of time before they disappear. I've changed these two things to make it flow as a single timeline: in this fanfiction, Damian has instead been resurrected by the Lazarus Pit, giving him healing abilities but also damaging his sanity. There are still mentions of a "devil" but... that will be explored later.

This story contains a prologue, five chapters, and an epilogue. Each act takes places in the winter of a new year. So if you're wondering why the time jumps around a lot, its because this story takes place over several years.

I originally wrote this story as a way to explore Damian's violence and instability described in the Batman #666 issue. In the same timeline, Dick and Damian are described as being Batman and Robin again, and I wanted to also explore this dynamic. This story was originally posted to AO3 back in March, and it is my first and only multi-chapter Batman fanfic. I had a lot of fun with it and I'm hoping to do another multi-chapter fic in the future with Dick/Damian.

That being said, I put a lot of work into building this universe, and this fic holds a very special place in my heart. It's pretty angsty and I don't expect everyone to care for it, but I ultimately wrote it for myself, and I'm really glad to be sharing it with you all.

* * *

Prologue

* * *

The snow was falling down in Gotham.

Damian Wayne raised his head to the sky, snowflakes falling on his flushed face. Snow was a nuisance, especially on patrol nights. His father had been hounding him all night to be careful, afraid that he'd slip and fall any time he ran too close to a ledge or sprinted through a dip in the street.

What did he expect? The chase was part of catching the bad guys. Black ice didn't change that.

Damian sniffed once. His face had gone numb long ago. His hood had been replaced with a water-resistant one, and while it was dry, it felt thin. He didn't pray or wish, simply because he didn't believe, but part of him still thought about how nice it would be if the snow would stop.

He walked over to join his father at the edge of the rooftop. The freshly fallen snow was swept away by his boots. Batman's shoulders and cowl were already covered in a layer of white.

As Damian joined his father by his side, he looked out into the distance. The streets of Gotham seemed eerily quiet in the winter time, the streetlights shining light on the dust of snow carried by the wind. Cars were piled under blankets. Windows and blinds were shut.

It was a slow night.

"Let's go home," Batman decided. Damian yawned in agreement.

He had told him a thousand times to be careful. He hadn't shut up about it every single time they scaled a fire escape or crossed a rooftop. When Damian slipped, he could hear his father's words echoing in his head. Before he could react and reach for the grappling gun on his waist, he felt impact and saw a blur of shape and color.

He didn't hit the ground. He was caught. He was set onto a wet fire escape and expected his father to be behind him. But when he rolled onto his back, he was greeted by a smile.

A smile that was too soft and genuine to be Batman.

Damian stared, unblinking, even as a single bead of water dripped from long dark bangs onto his cheek. His rescuer hovered so closely that when he breathed, their breaths intermingled, white frost in the air.

"Careful, snow makes everything slippery," Dick had said, and even beneath the filtered lenses of Dick's mask, Damian swore he could see those blue eyes shine. "But it looks beautiful, doesn't it?"


	2. First Winter

**A/N** : The first chapter takes place a few years after the prologue.

* * *

First Winter

* * *

Damian leaned forward, the top of his forehead pressing against the cold metal of the stair railing.

"Sir, I'm telling you, you _can't_. If your back breaks again, there is nothing I or any other surgeon will be able to do for you. You're lucky you aren't paralyzed."

"Enough, Alfred."

Pennyworth's face turned red, his voice filled with indignation. "You're actually going to do this. You're actually going to work yourself to death."

Damian watched quietly from his spot in the cave as his father and Alfred argued. His eyes went back and forth, from Bruce in his back brace to Alfred struggling to raise his voice without coughing. Damian felt a pain deep inside of his chest but he couldn't recognize why he felt the way he did.

"They're still going at it," a voice said quietly. Damian didn't turn back to look at Dick. He kept his gaze forward, his legs dangling over the edge of the staircase and his hands wrapped around the railing's steel bars, his eyes carefully watching Bruce and Alfred. He could hear the raw emotion in Alfred's voice but he stopped paying enough attention to listen to what words he was yelling. Dick was closely followed by another voice.

"We need to stop him," Tim said. Their voices are distant but Damian listened anyways. "Bruce _will_ die if we let him out there again. We need to stage an intervention or something."

"Drop it. You know the old man bat isn't going to change. This is his life. Let him live it to the end on his own terms."

"Jason, how can you say that? If Bruce takes another hit to his spine, he's done. If he was in any other condition, or ten years younger, then you'd be right. But if he goes out there again, that's it. The risk is too high. He's sustained too many injuries over his lifetime." Barbara's voice would have been unidentifiable if hers wasn't the only feminine voice. Her voice seemed too shrill, too emotional, for her usual composed self.

"Barbara," Dick's voice said gently.

"He's like a second father to me. I won't let him do this. I'll arrest him myself, if I have to."

"It doesn't have to come to that," said Tim, cutting in sharply. "If we talk to him, he'll have to see reason. But we need to approach him as a group. As a family."

"He's _never_ going to change, Tim. You just… you need to drop it."

"Are you _leaving_? I thought we were past you running out."

"You guys are fighting a losing battle. I'm not wasting an ounce of energy on fighting that stubborn bastard." Jason went quiet for a moment. "I didn't come back just to be hurt again."

Damian hugged closer to the railing to give Jason room to walk on the staircase. Jason paused to look down at him. Damian dared to look back but he remained quiet. Oddly quiet. He tried to think of something biting to say but he realized he didn't have the energy. The past couple of drama-fuelled days had taken their toll.

"Take care, kid," Jason said before Damian could think of what to say. _Kid_. Damian didn't bother to correct him—it didn't matter to Jason that Damian's nearing his mid-teens and is quickly approaching him in height. To Jason, Damian will always be _kid_. Jason walked out, tugging on the red hood as he went. Damian's gaze lowered.

"I'm going down there," Barbara said. "We have to talk to Bruce, no matter what Jason thinks."

"Maybe he has a point."

"Dick, you can't be serious," Tim said, his voice sounding defeated.

"I know him, Tim. I've known him longer than any of you. Batman is more important to him than his life. He doesn't want to be stopped."

"I can't believe you," Barbara's whisper sounded almost betrayed. "He would stop you. You know that, right? He'd stop any of us. How can you let him put his life at risk?"

"His life has always been at risk. What were you hoping for, Babs? That he'd live out a retirement and die in a nursing home? As sad as it is, it's never been his style."

"He was a father to you."

"He taught me how to be who I am, that is true. That's exactly why I can't do it. I would want the same for myself."

"You can't mean that," Barbara said, her voice choking with the same emotion from earlier. But this time, Dick was without words to comfort her. "You would just toss your life away? Do we really mean that little to you?"

The tension was thick. Tim finally spoke up, his voice sounding small. "I am going to say something."

"I'm going with you," Barbara said, her voice an octave lower, sounding almost angry.

They passed by Damian without a word. Another set of footsteps followed, pausing where Damian sat.

"They don't get it," Damian said quietly, as he watched Pennyworth bury his face in his hands. Tim came behind him, looking a little awkward before finally settling a hand on the butler's shoulder, a small semblance of comfort. Barbara immediately started digging into Bruce, all hand gestures and pointing fingers. "He'll never stop."

"You need to talk to him," Dick said.

"He wouldn't listen. He never listens."

"He'd listen to you."

" _Tt_. Right," Damian said sarcastically. His voice is so bitter it feels wrong, even for him. "You don't know that."

"I do," Dick said firmly. "You're his son. You need a father. And he knows what it's like to need a father."

Damian sunk in his place at that. He didn't want to play on the fact that his father was an orphan. It felt cheap. But he knew deep down that Grayson was right—Bruce would do a lot of things. He would jump off buildings, take bullets, solve the impossible and break his back twice—but he wouldn't make orphans. His father was stubborn but that could possibly be enough to stop him.

Dick went down to ease the conversation. It only escalated further, blowing up into a huge argument between all parties. The only one who seemed to stand back was Alfred, who eventually retreated back to the manor. Damian didn't want to get involved. There was too much talking, too many emotions being flung, and the last thing Damian liked doing was interacting when he had the option. Damian made his tredge down the steps.

Too many voices. Damian immediately felt the instinct to withdraw into himself. Lately, talking to people had been more of a chore. Over the past few years, he had been forced to interact with more people, and he found that most conversations seemed to be lacking. Not in terms of interesting content, but moreso that he felt that there was something lost. An inability to connect.

The older he got, the more of an outcast he had become.

Because he was so practiced in keeping to himself, no one seemed to notice his presence. They were too involved in their shouting, their thrown accusations, their high defenses.

Damian wasn't sure how to break the silence. He knew if he failed to say the right thing and say it in the right way, his father wouldn't listen.

"Father," Damian said, speaking up. His mouth felt dry, his nerves a bit shaky, but all of the tension in the room died down at his voice. All eyes turned to him. "Don't do this."

For the first time in the midst of the whole argument, Bruce seemed to falter. A flash of uncertainty crossed his eyes. Dick's words echoed in Damian's head. _He knows what it's like to need a father_. Damian didn't want to play the son card but it seemed to be playing on its own. He stood outside of the circle of people. People who had known Bruce longer than he had the chance to. People who Bruce called family long before the man ever knew he had a son.

It didn't seem right. It didn't seem fair that their tears, their raised voices, couldn't reach him when Damian's could. But Damian knew he couldn't afford to worry about it. Not then.

"You know I can't promise that," Bruce replied. His voice was firm but there was a heaviness in his eyes.

"I'm scared," Damian confessed. He hated saying it, hated how weak his words sounded, especially when every face in the room turned sympathetic. Especially when he saw the growing uncertainty in Bruce's eyes. But he had to say it. "You're not yourself anymore. Even before your back injury, you kept stumbling. You can't keep up. Against smaller criminals, it's not as concerning… but these big cases… they're too much for you."

"Damian," Bruce said, but he stopped there. He didn't know what to say.

"You're going to die," Damian whispered. Bruce didn't look him the eye.

For the first time that night, a silence filled the cave.

"I need a moment with my son," Bruce finally said.

"Okay," Tim said quietly, finally backing down. He moved to leave. The rest turned to follow when Bruce spoke up.

"Dick, stay."

Dick paused midstep. The surprise is apparent in all of their faces, but Dick stood up straight.

"Sure thing."

Barbara glanced at Dick, a moment of concern flickering in her eyes. But when Dick caught her gaze, she stiffened her jaw and turned away. Dick's gaze fell back to the ground as Barbara followed Tim back to the manor. When their forms disappeared into the shadows, Bruce finally spoke.

"Damian," Bruce said, turning to Damian with a serious expression. Damian stiffened in place under his gaze. "Do you want me to stop?"

Damian didn't understand. Didn't understand why his father was talking like he was leaving this big decision to him. Dick was carefully averting his eyes, but Damian felt it. He felt the expectations. Everyone is hoping that Damian would answer carefully—and correctly.

"No," Damian answered truthfully. For a moment, he can see the relief in Bruce's gaze, and it's almost enough for Damian to leave it at that. He didn't want to disappoint his father. But while Bruce turned relieved, Dick grew visibly tense. Damian continued, "I don't want to stop being Batman and Robin. But you need to stop. I need you to stop."

Bruce looked at him. "Damian, I know this is a serious injury—"

"I need my father," Damian said, cutting him off. He was throwing in the son card. He didn't want to but it had the expected effect. Bruce's assuredness was crumbling. Damian couldn't read people, he lacked that gift, but it was obvious. Bruce was deep in thought, turning Damian's words over in his head. Putting his son's needs up against his own. "There was a time where you were practically invincible but those days are over. Enough is enough. It's time to listen to Pennyworth, your doctors and everyone else."

Damian wasn't sure what to expect next. Would Bruce reject him? Treat his words as betrayal? Did he know that Damian would follow him loyally anyways, even if he disagreed?

When Bruce turned quiet, the tension grew. Finally, he began to nod slowly. "Okay," he said quietly.

Damian's heart skipped a beat. When he saw the defeated look in Bruce's eyes, it didn't feel like a victory, but he was still relieved. So relieved.

But of course, he should have known better, because Bruce immediately turned to Dick.

"The cowl's yours."

Dick immediately tensed up, his brow furrowing.

"No," he said, his gaze quickly growing dark. But Bruce wasn't going to budge.

"Gotham City needs a Batman. Especially now."

"You're doing this on purpose. You know I won't take it."

"This is a point in my career where I can't retire, but since I must—"

"You're not doing this to me," Dick said, interrupting. Damian felt it—he could hear the anger in Dick's voice, could imagine the tension in Dick's arms as he clenched his fists at his sides. But unlike all of the other times Damian's seen Dick get angry, he wasn't shouting. Instead he grew cold, furiously cold. But Bruce was a stone wall under Dick's gaze.

"You've done it once before."

"Yeah. When everybody thought you were _dead_." Dick lets out a noise, almost like a scoff, that's halfway between disbelief and bitterness. "So is that how this is going to be? I become Batman or you don't retire? You're seriously making me choose between something you _know_ I don't want or risk getting you killed?" When Bruce didn't reply, Dick shook his head to himself. He gritted his teeth, wanting to shout but trying to compose himself. "God damn you. God _damn_ you."

"Father, you should think this through," Damian offered, but it was a lost cause. Bruce and Dick are too busy staring each other down to listen to him.

"If Gotham thinks there is no Batman, crime will skyrocket. There's no one else I could give it to. You have the experience. You have my training. You're the only one I know who can balance that type of responsibility without abusing it. I can't trust anyone else to do it."

"You have a _son_!" Dick shouted, suddenly turning. "God, do you know what that even _means_? Do you know what I would do to _have_ that? I lost my chance, and now I'm just watching you _waste_ it! And for what? This pact you made to yourself _years_ ago? Just let go of it! Enjoy whatever few years you have left to have a _normal fucking life with your family_. You did your work. You worked your body until it literally could not go on. Isn't that _enough_? Is your flesh-and-blood telling you to stop not _enough_?"

The room grew quiet. Damian realized, almost with shame, that he had never thought of it before. Never thought that maybe Dick would have liked to have settled down or become a father. The puzzle pieces came together, when he thought of it. He knew, from what other people had told him, that Dick had quit crimefighting before he became Nightwing. Knew that he had quit shortly after what happened between him and Koriand'r, the woman he had almost married. And yet for some reason, he just assumed that Dick would never have pursued a life outside of crimefighting.

Bruce seemed torn. Reluctantly, without glancing at Damian, he said, "You know my answer."

Dick's short outburst seemed enough to exhaust him. He shook his head to himself.

"Fuck you," he settled on, and he said nothing else when he walked out.

* * *

It had been so long since Damian had been outside the Wayne manor at night. Normally, he only saw it when he was passing his way in and out of the cave.

The snow crunched under his boots as he walked around the estates, making his way into the peaceful cemetery. Titus moved towards a grave marker, beginning to sniff at the headstone.

"Titus," Damian scolded, wrinkling his nose. The great dane poked his head up. "Not there."

Titus complied, choosing a spot by a tree to mark his territory instead, sparing Patrick Wayne. When Titus was done, he returned to Damian's side, moving slowly. The wintertime was especially rough on the dog's arthritis. Damian was sure to rub his back.

"You used to be almost as tall as me," Damian said out loud without meaning to. Titus looked up once before sniffing at Damian's pockets, obviously not understanding. Damian knew that Titus was getting old. Great danes didn't live long and he was already a grown adult by the time they met.

Damian knew that as a general rule, the bigger the dog, the shorter they tended to live.

Winter seemed to make everything dark and still. The grave markers were piled with snow. Damian could still recognize them by their distinct, individual shapes and placement—but the snow covered most of their plaques. Alfred usually liked to keep the tops of them clear but he hadn't found the energy to do any outside work.

The snow in the midst of the night brought back a distant memory, one from many years ago. A memory of falling snowflakes and a gentle smile.

Titus suddenly stood straight up, gazing off in the distance. Damian imagined he had heard a noise but the dog's sudden alertness confirmed his suspicions. Damian turned to where he thought he heard it, facing a line of trees. Sure enough, Dick came out from his spot. Damian expected to see him in uniform and out in the city considering the time.

"Do you always hide creepily behind trees?"

"I'm creepy?"

" _Tt_. It's nighttime and you're in a _graveyard_. And technically, unless Alfred buzzed you in, you're trespassing."

"Fair point," Dick said. Titus immediately approached him. Dick took off his glove so Titus could sniff his hand. "To be fair, you're out here too."

"What do you want?" Damian said, cutting to the chase.

"I haven't seen either of you on patrol lately," Dick said. Titus' tail wagged gently as Dick rubbed behind his ears. Even though Damian spent more time with Titus than anyone, he could never get that spot _just_ right like Dick seemed to be able to do. Titus was wagging his tail like he was half his age.

Dogs. People. It didn't matter. Dick had a natural ability to understand others.

"Father's doing therapy for his back first."

"Ah," Dick said shortly, his face falling. A silence passed between them. "I'm sorry," Dick said finally.

"It's fine. I get it," Damian said. Damian didn't have to ask what Dick was apologizing about. He already knew it had to do with their last meeting. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling a little uncomfortable. "It wasn't right of him to ask you to do that."

"I spent a long time trying to step out of his shadow. For that brief time I wore the cowl, I didn't feel like me. I felt like I was trying to fill in his shoes—or boots, rather. It felt different. _I_ felt different."

"You don't need to explain yourself to me," Damian said. Dick nodded to himself in understanding. Memories drifted into Damian's mind. Times where they ran together, fought together. When Dick was Batman and he was just starting out as Robin. The words he had been wanting to say slipped from his mouth, "But there were some fun times."

Dick looked up, their eyes connecting. The corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. "Yeah. There were."

When Dick smiled, Damian felt uneasy. Anxious, almost. But Damian couldn't put a word on what he felt, because he never felt anxious. At times he had known fear, but there was a difference in horror and nerves. Damian had jumped off buildings, fought with grown armed men twice his size, and he had never known nerves.

Damian wouldn't say it was nerves that made him tense around Dick Grayson. It was confusion, more than anything. If Damian added up all the things he admired about Richard, he'd find that many of the same answers lied with other people. Still, there was something different about Dick, something that confused him. The feelings bubbled up every now and then. Lately, more frequently.

A light breeze blew some of the snow off of the headstones. The swept up snow almost gave the illusion of falling snowflakes. Almost.

"I don't want to quit crime fighting," Dick said suddenly. Damian felt a bit surprised, especially considering the words he had heard Dick say last time they had been together. "I've tried but it always comes back to me. It's too ingrained in me now. Sure, I often wonder what my life would be like if I wasn't constantly punching people's faces in. But I don't do this to hurt people. I do this to save people. And I can't quit that feeling, no matter how hard I try."

Damian wished he could say the same. His whole life he had struggled to find that balance between hurting people and saving people. He wondered if he could really do one without the other. If it wasn't for his father… if it wasn't for Batman…

"I was angry at Bruce because of you," Dick continued. Damian stared back. "I know that you didn't have a great start in life, I know that with the League of Assassins, you were already being trained for something far beyond you… but when Bruce returned home all those years ago, when he essentially had a second chance at life, I was hoping he'd realize that he didn't have to fight anymore. That he'd have you and that would be enough. I know for me, if I had a son, it would have been."

Damian didn't know how to respond. Dick sighed, his breath visible in the frost.

"And then there was that time… and I thought, after that, he would stop… he was so upset…"

 _That time_. Dick didn't have to elaborate what he meant. In the Family, the event was never spoken by name. It was the time that Damian died. It had felt so long ago. The memories of it were hazed. Dark. Damian knew the circumstances of his death. His mother's involvement. It was the moments during and afterwards that were blurry. Being dead. Rising again.

Damian wasn't sure where Dick was going with this. Dick sighed and continued.

"But then I realized that Bruce is trying to save people too. That he can't quit it, just like I can't. But unlike Bruce, I have nothing to lose. It wasn't right of me to make the decision I made. People need to be saved. You need your father. And whatever symbol I wear, it doesn't matter. I am me," Dick said. He was smiling, but his gaze looked a little sad. Damian didn't know what to say. He was, truthfully, speechless. "I think I'm going to do it, so long as the old bat hasn't changed his mind."

"You don't have to do that," Damian said, at once. "I know you don't want to."

"I do want to," Dick said. He turned his attention back to Titus, who was looking up at him eagerly. Dick went back to scratching behind his ears, ever the pleaser. "I want Bruce to be around longer. For both of us."

* * *

"Is this really necessary?"

"Yes. Now do it again."

"I've been crime fighting since I was _ten_. Even _you_ can't say that."

"You still act like you're ten. Now stop whining and do it again."

Dick's ears turned red but he swallowed back any argument. Damian watched at a safe distance as Bruce directed Dick through their training drills. Damian had trained alongside his father well enough to recognize the drills as Bruce's own workout routine. Damian questioned his father's judgment—Bruce was an entirely different build from Dick, who was more lean and limber. This intense training would change Dick's build—and as a result, the fighting style he had been using his entire life. It was obvious what Bruce was trying to do, even if the billionaire didn't recognize it himself. Dick might have been 'taking over' as Batman but Bruce was hardly ready to relinquish control, instead sculpting Dick into an embodiment to live through.

"He's just going to get injured," Damian said to Pennyworth, who had been sitting nearby. Pennyworth had a newspaper in one hand and was idly petting Alfred the cat with his other. Damian started wrapping up his hands, prepping for his own training routine. "They've been at it for hours."

"That's why I'm here, to make sure Master Bruce doesn't break anything," Pennyworth said, eyes still locked on the article he was reading.

"I was talking about Richard getting hurt," Damian said, raising an eyebrow. Pennyworth lowered the paper below eye level and returned the look.

"As was I."

That was fair. " _Tt_. Point taken. I suppose I wouldn't put it past Father these days. I swear the vein in his temple gets bigger every day…"

"What are you _doing_?" Bruce shouted, as if on cue. The volume alone was enough to make Alfred jump in place and bristle his fur. "Those jumps need to _stick_."

"The only stick you're getting is the one lodged inside your—"

"Start over!"

On the other hand, Damian supposed he couldn't blame his father for being a hardass. Even though the change in training routine was likely made in poor judgment, Grayson wasn't making things any easier with his quips and comebacks. With a heavy sigh, Damian put in his headphones before starting his own routine.

The music drowned out whatever arguing was in the background. Damian set out on his normal routine after his stretches. Occasionally in his peripherals, he would catch his father and Dick talking—Dick, all angry hand gestures and pointing, while Bruce stared back with crossed arms and a stern gaze. Damian did his best to ignore it.

After his basic workout, he always moved into practicing his tools. How to use the grappling hook as a weapon, using his cape as a shield, practicing with a bo, and more. In the training room there were practice dummies that could move. The AI, while impressive, was far from perfect—but it kept Damian practiced, so it was enough.

The dummies moved more like robots than people and they were faceless. Even without identities, however, the silhouettes of their bodies still resembled people.

On a normal mission, Damian would never carry throwing stars on him. Instead he'd have his discs—blunt and round projectiles that would bruise but never stab. Maybe he'd even have a batarang for dire situations when he needed something sharp. But with the dummies, Damian always wanted to know where his hits were going to land so he used the shuriken so they could be marked.

Even on the hardest difficulty, it was just another routine.

The dummies were designed to move at amazing speeds—a plausible threat in real life, if they were fighting against metahumans. They moved awkwardly and didn't always react like humans, and there were no expressions to see.

But he was supposed to pretend. Supposed to pretend they were people. So he threw his stars at non-vital areas. A leg. An arm.

He dodged their attacks, jumped and slid underneath them, threw at any impossible angle he could come up with. The entire time he did this, his music played in his ears, the mechanical sounds of his opponents silenced by the sounds of instruments.

A dummy managed to sneak up on him but he turned in time, reaching in his belt for another shuriken. He leapt back to gain distance, raised his throwing arm as the dummy came at him.

Suddenly, an image flashed before his vision.

 _What_?

It was too late. The throwing star left his hand, embedding itself into place in the dummy. As he programmed it, the dummy stopped moving once hit. It was the last one in the room, and Damian was surrounded by a crowd of motionless mannequins. And though they were faceless, Damian couldn't help but reach the feeling that he was being stared at.

Damian stuffed those feelings down, shaking his head to himself, trying to recall the image he saw in his mind before he threw the shuriken. Couldn't remember. He raised a finger to touch his temple, his face scrunching up. A headache? But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the pain in his head seemed to fade away. He finally looked back up at the dummy, unmoving. Its expressionless head sat on its shoulders.

Damian blinked twice before marching forward, running a finger along the edge of the star. His eyes narrowed in confusion.

Damian had studied anatomy and physiology extensively since he was old enough to talk. Understanding the body was the most important part of being an assassin. On a real person, this star easily would have cut through a major artery, had the equipment been designed for killing. Since becoming Robin, Damian had to reverse his line of thinking. Instead of aiming for those targets, he had to aim to avoid them—backtracking upon years and years of ingrained instinct and childhood upbringing.

He thought he had rid himself of these habits long ago.

Wrinkling his nose, Damian yanked out the star. He looked down at the equipment. He tried to calm down his racing thoughts. _It's fine_ , he reminded himself. His normal Robin equipment wouldn't embed itself so deep.

 _It's fine_. Robin wasn't designed to kill.

Damian felt something brush against his shoulder. He immediately jumped and spun around, shuriken in hand. He saw Dick raising his hands up in defense. Damian's shoulders slumped when he realized his mistake—it was just Richard. The teen yanked out his earphones.

"What?" he said, more biting than usual. The corner of Dick's mouth quirked up slightly into an awkward-looking smile, like he was trying not to laugh.

"Did I startle you?"

Damian felt heat rise to his ears. "If you have nothing useful to say—"

"Don't say anything at all?"

"Where's Father?" Damian asked, surprised to see Dick without Bruce hovering over his shoulder. His father had been unbearable to be around ever since Dick decided to take over as Batman. Even though Bruce was supposed to be relaxing in order to heal from his back surgery, he couldn't withhold himself from giving Dick his Batman 101 training.

"Apparently, I _do_ get breaks," Dick said, wiping his face on the towel hanging from his shoulders.

"Well I'm not taking mine," Damian said.

"All you were doing was staring at that dummy."

"Why are you questioning _my_ work ethic? Shouldn't you be focusing on yourself? I'm sure Father would agree. I haven't heard him yell that loud in years."

"Easy for you to say. He isn't making _you_ do this."

"I'm too young. It would ultimately be inefficient. A training exercise of that intensity has a higher chance of stunting my growth. I need to think of the long term goals."

At that, Dick seemed confused. Like he had never even considered Damian as someone having personal aspirations. "Such as?"

"Well, you're not going to be Batman forever."

"Thanks." The sarcasm wasn't lost on him.

"I didn't mean—"Damian cut himself short, his expression souring. As usual, he had said the wrong thing, but he wasn't going to apologize. "Nevermind."

Dick stared at Damian for a moment before placing a hand on top of his head. Damian's expression flattened, as it often did whenever Richard started doing something odd. Though, admittedly, the physical contact started to make his heart beat a little harder.

"What are you doing?" Damian asked.

"How tall are you now?"

"5'9."

"No you're not."

" _Tt_. What would you know? Do you follow me with a measuring stick?"

"I'm 5'10. You couldn't possibly be…" Dick placed a hand on his own head, trying to compare. "Nevermind. Maybe you're right." At that, Damian rolled his eyes. Of course he was right. Dick continued, sounding incredulous, "And you're worried about _stunting_ your growth? You're almost as tall as me."

"Both Father and Grandfather are over six feet and most people grow until they're sixteen. I'm fairly certain I haven't met my peak yet."

"Hm," was all Dick said, as if he wasn't sure how to take that bit of information. Instead of continuing that part of the conversation, he nodded towards Damian's hand. "How's that going?"

"It's going well," Damian said shortly, holding the star a little tighter in his hand, as if to hide it. A moment of guilt seemed to wash over him. He didn't lie much these days. He was withdrawn, sure, but he had to learn to kick his secretive tendencies once he became part of a team.

Richard was also looking at him so expectantly that the guilt seemed to sink in a little deeper.

But what was he supposed to say? He wasn't quite sure what happened anyways. When he tried to recall the image, it slipped away as quickly as it came. It took so long for everyone to learn to trust him... it would be best not to worry anyone.

"I think I'm done for the day," Damian said, coming up with the quickest excuse he could find to get out of there. He didn't dare to look Richard in the eye as he walked past him.

"I thought you weren't taking your break," Dick called after him, the voice taking a teasing tone.

But it was false. Damian couldn't understand people, but he could read Richard at least that much. He knew Dick had a tendency to force out his humor and his jokes, even when he was upset. He knew that Dick had came up to _him_ , arguably the least approachable person in the entire Family, when he had his break. Knew that Dick probably could have used a friend to talk to after all the extra stress that he had picked up in the last few weeks.

He buried Nightwing just so he could wake up in this cold manor every day and get yelled at by Bruce. Even though he never said it out loud, Damian knew that Barbara still hadn't spoken to him since the big argument in the cave—even Batgirl seemed to have entirely disappeared, since Barbara joined GCPD in hopes of becoming the new commissioner. On top of that, Jason had gone missing and Tim was too focused on his Titans work to even bother to stop by.

But while Dick refused to worry people by forcing himself to be happy, Damian couldn't do the same.

So he just kept it all to himself instead.

* * *

"I hate this thing."

Damian was perched on the edge of a building, his lookout spot, when he heard Dick grumbling. He looked away long enough to glance backward. Dick was trying to push his cape away. The billowing winds fought against the fabric, blowing the long, black cape in Dick's face.

"Its just the wind," Damian said. He had the edge of his own cape tightly tucked inside his hand. "Normally the bulletproof material is too heavy for normal winds."

"I know," Dick said with a tired sigh. "But there's a reason I never had a cape when I was Nightwing."

Damian had watched Dick put on the Batman uniform in the cave, but it was specifically that moment where they were side-by-side on the rooftop at night that sprung forth old memories. Suddenly the days of the past came to Damian's mind and Damian made a short noise, almost like laughter, and said, "You used to complain about it back then, too."

Dick smiled a little, the amused look unsuiting when paired with the grim cowl, and countered, "Yeah? Well back then, you complained about _everything_."

Damian had expected the transition to be difficult. He had worked with Richard first, sure, but he had spent most of his Robin years with his father. But somehow, it seemed that they slipped back into things naturally.

"I see someone," Damian said, cutting the conversation short when he noticed someone moving down below. They hadn't been waiting long. They caught a glimpse of someone entering the warehouse they had been scouting, the first body they had seen on the portside for what felt like hours.

"Cave," Dick said, his voice echoing into Damian's earpiece. "We spotted someone entering the building. We're going in."

"Not so fast," Bruce's voice responded on the other side of the line. "How many people are inside the building?"

"We've been out here since 21:00," Dick said. "This is the first body we've seen come near this building."

"That doesn't answer my question. If you run in there and the place is filled with arms dealers and their bodyguards, you'll be dead. Stay there."

Dick frowned. "You said you checked the day cameras. You said no one appeared in the footage. I think it's safe to assume that this guy is on his own."

"The day cameras don't show the building from every angle. There could be other passages. Things unnoticed in the blindspots. Perhaps if we had more time to set up the correct cameras, I'd let you make the call."

"Yes. _If_ we had time. Meaning it's now or never before these arms are shipped south."

"Quit being an impatient child."

"Also, I'm pretty sure _I_ make the calls now. It comes with the stupid cape."

"That cape might be the only thing stopping you from becoming swiss cheese when you charge in there recklessly. But I suppose that's not my call to make."

"You're right. It _isn't_."

Damian yawned as Dick and Bruce went back and forth over the commlink.

"You're being foolish."

"How many times have you charged into places when Penny-One told you not to? _Fucking Christ_ , it's like you live in your own little world," Dick cursed, his voice a hiss.

"I have the experience to make these judgment calls."

"Holy shit, you act like I've never done this before." Dick rubbed his face. "Whatever. I'm making the call. We're going in. Be our eyes or _don't_ be."

" _Robin_ isn't going _anywhere_ ," Bruce's voice said sternly. Damian, whose eyes had been half-lidded with boredom the entire time, jumped at the mention of his persona. "If you want to headbutt your way into your own grave, be my guest, but you're not dragging Robin with you."

"Cave," Damian said into the commlink. "It'll be fine. We've scouted the area for several hours. I've seen no other bodies enter."

"Wait until they leave."

"If there is a secret passageway, it'll make no difference. They'll take out the arms that way and we'll have wasted time being idle," Damian said. "I concur with Batman. We'll have to trust the cameras. It's now or never."

There was a moment's pause on the other line. Finally, "Alright. I'll keep an eye on the outside cameras. Let me know if you need to make an escape."

After it was all said and done, Dick sighed heavily. "I never thought I'd see the day when he trusted _your_ judgment over _mine_."

"He's… coping." Damian shrugged. "He wants to be out here. He wants to make the calls with his own eyes, not a bunch of installed cameras in the city. Unfortunately, since you're Batman, you'll have to take the brunt of it. He's going to be most critical of your performance than anything else."

"Then hopefully I'll prove him wrong."

"We will," Damian said, confident, and he pulled out his grappling gun.

They lowered themselves to the ground below, following the man's entrance. They stuck to the walls, careful not to reveal themselves. As they moved further and further into a hallway, they passed some grates. Dick stopped, looking at them.

"How far do you think the vents go? Think you could crawl in and scout?" Dick suggested. When he heard no response, he turned and looked at Damian, who was staring back incredulously. "What?"

"And _you're_ the one who tells Father to stop pretending that you're ten?" Damian said. He looked down at the size of the grate, doubting he could even get his shoulders in. "That might have worked _five years ago_."

Damian didn't think it was possible for anyone to look embarrassed in the Batman cowl but Dick proved him wrong. "Right. Sorry, I guess I forgot."

" _Tt_. You would do well to remember, hypocrite."

"Okay, okay. I get it. Bad idea."

They rounded the corner, finally coming across their arms dealers.

"I guess Father was right," Damian said as he looked at the crowd of people inside. Dick shook his head to himself.

"Look closer. They're assembling those crates for shipment. They've probably been here for days—they're just the bottom of the food chain. As for the people in charge, I'm assuming it's our man from earlier." Dick pointed and Damian followed the trail to a man who stood at the top of a staircase, surveying the workers. He was the most well-kept out of everyone in the room and was surrounded by intimidating men who looked like they were waiting for a fight.

Damian quickly scanned what he could from their position. "I count seven armed guards, including his personal entourage." Damian's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Seven guards were nothing, but with all of these people... "You don't suppose those workers would attack us if we went in, do you? They are packing weapons, after all."

"Do you actually think any of these people _want_ to be here?" Dick said. Damian looked at their tired eyes, something he hadn't noticed until Dick pointed it out. "They all look like they're not from around here. They're probably just looking for some shelter and maybe some cash—they might even be forced to work here. They're hardly loyal. If any of them try to shoot us, it'll be out of fear, but their first instinct will likely be to duck and run."

"How should we do this?"

"We can't gas the place. Too many people. We'll have to do it the old-fashioned way. From our vantage point, I'm guessing we could take out at least two guards with tranqs before they notice," Dick said.

"On it," Damian said, reaching into his utility belt for his tranquilizer. He started loading it.

"Cave," Dick whispered into the commlink. "We're inside. There's our target and at least seven guards. Too many workers to count and even bigger stacks of cargo."

"I'll contact GCPD," Bruce said. "Be sure to set up the recorder. With Gordon gone, we'll need to make sure we have evidence of our every movement, lest they'll think we're involved."

Dick raised his bracer toward the ceiling, careful to not reveal himself. With a quick _fwish_ noise, a projectile launched to the ceiling, attaching itself. A tiny red light blinked once to confirm that it was on, its lens reflecting subtly.

"It's set," Bruce said. "Move in but don't get yourself killed."

At that, Dick wrinkled his face. "Wasn't planning on it."

"You don't plan a lot of things," Bruce said sternly and he turned off the commlink. Dick inhaled slightly through his nostrils.

"If he keeps hollering in my ear, I'll kill him myself," Dick muttered angrily.

"Not now," Damian said, rolling his eyes. This whole thing was becoming childish. "We've got bigger things to worry about."

Damian aimed the tranquilizer, firing a dart at one guard. By the time the nearest guard noticed him comrade falling, Damian fired at him as well.

By then, people were alert to what was going on. The workers stopped, startled. The other guards launched into action, beginning to survey the area. Two guards headed straight in their direction.

"See if you can take one more out," Dick said but Damian was already firing.

The guard went down—and his comrade spotted them. He started firing shots and both Batman and Robin ducked out of the way. Dick threw a batarang around the corner, the guard crying out.

"Lucky shot," Damian said.

"Not really," Dick said as the guard moved into the corridor, seeping blood from a cut above his brow.

Damian jumped out of the bullets' range. Dick seamlessly did a duck and roll before kicking the gun out of the man's hands. A series of punches and the guy was on the ground.

Damian didn't have time to focus on Dick. He ran into the room, the gunfire from the guards following him. The workers screamed and moved out of the way.

Damian slid underneath a table, nearly knocked down by the stampede of people. He pulled out a disc from his belt and looked at it, panic suddenly striking him.

 _It'll be alright_ , he had to remind himself. _This can't seriously hurt anyone_. He focused on the direction of the gunfire before rising from underneath the table. He only had a split second to aim but he threw the perfect shot, the disc striking the wrist of a gunman.

"Nice!" he heard Dick yell in the background, complimenting his shot. The sounds of combat behind him followed.

" _Tt_ ," Damian breathed. He'd have to get used to Richard's enthusiasm. He charged in the direction of the gunman, effortlessly leaping under and over half-opened crates and tables, landing with a foot to the gunman's face.

"Too slow," a voice echoed in his ear. "You've still got one more guard and your target is making his escape!"

Damian spun around to see what his father was referring to. Their man in the suit was heading up a scape.

Dick was already responding, using the warehouse's pillars, beams and railings to quickly scale to the top, climbing quicker than Damian or Bruce could ever hope to mimic. It was his specialty, what he was born and raised to do.

Even though it wasn't the time, Damian couldn't help but feel annoyed. If his father kept trying to bulk Richard up, that talent was going to go to waste. Damian followed Dick as quickly as he could.

But by the time Damian reached the top, hanging from the scape's railing, Dick was fighting the last guard and his target was gone.

The last guard was prepared and actually was putting up a decent fight. Damian's eyes widened as Dick got tossed toward him. Damian quickly moved his right hand off the railing, lest it get crushed, and it left him dangling with one hand.

" _Sloppy_!" Bruce's voice suddenly hissed into the comm. Bruce's sudden voice put Damian so off-balance that he nearly let go. "You're letting him get away!"

Damian heard Dick growl in the distance. " _Shut up_!"

"What?" the guard said to Dick, perplexed that Batman was seemingly yelling at him. Dick ignored the question and ran forward, grabbing him. While the two struggled, Damian safely climbed over the top.

While the guard was distracted, Damian snuck up from behind, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him backwards. Together, the two managed to toss the guard over the railing, landing him on top of a tall stack of crates. The guards were down. Damian quickly looked around for their target.

"Where'd he go?" Damian asked into the commlink.

"He's heading out the back entrance. To your right, there will be door. You need to move quickly. He has a car parked outside of the entrance," Bruce responded. Bruce made a low, annoyed noise. "I should be there."

" _Cave_ ," Dick said, hurrying to the door with Damian closely behind him. Damian could tell by the tone of his voice that Dick was trying his damndest not to drop real names. "You're _hovering_. I get that being on the sidelines is a difficult transition for you—"

"This isn't about me not wanting to let go. This is about your lack of efficiency and your inability to take direction."

"Hanging up. Bye."

" _You_ —"

Damian heard all of the colorful words to follow. But Dick, who pressed a button on the side of his cowl, clearly didn't hear any of it. They hurried out the exit, finding themselves on the firescape.

"He's there!" Damian said, noticing their target on the ground below them, just stepping off the fire escape.

Dick leapt to the bottom, the paracape guiding him safely. In that moment, with the cape activated and its wings spread, Dick truly looked like Batman. Damian's heart, which had been racing with adrenaline, made a final leap when he saw Dick successfully tackle down their target. It was done.

GCPD arrived shortly after, surveying the warehouse and opening up the crates of illegal arms. Dick and Damian let the police do their job, arresting the dealer and blocking off the area for evidence.

As they backed away, a voice spoke.

"Nice work."

"Turn your comm back on," Damian said, elbowing Dick gently. Dick rolled his eyes but obeyed.

"What is it?" he said, sounding exasperated.

"...nice work," Bruce repeated reluctantly. All it took was that one hesitant compliment to have Dick grinning.

"I told you we would get them," Dick said, and Damian couldn't help but smile a little by the word _we_. It finally felt official. They were a team again.

"I was still right. There were people in the warehouse. It was dangerous for you to run in," Bruce said. Bruce paused for a moment before adding, "But... you caught them and you're both safe, and that's the important thing."

"Isn't there one more thing I'm right about?" Dick said, and Damian flashed him a warning look for his cockiness. Dick just shrugged sheepishly in response.

Bruce was reluctant again. "I was hovering a little."

"A little?"

"A _little_ ," Bruce said flatly. "But Penny-One isn't well enough to do this so you better get used to it. Be prepared for what it means for me to hover a _lot_. It's getting late. Return to the cave. Signing out."

" _Whoo_!" Dick said happily, shoving Damian's shoulder playfully.

"Don't touch me."

"Sorry. Got excited."

"Easily so," Damian said but he supposed that was nothing new. "GCPD is just a few yards away. I don't know how they'd react to Batman _whoo_ ing. Stay in character."

"This _is_ my character," Dick said, and Damian stopped at that. He looked at Dick for a moment, standing pointed cowl to boots in the Batman uniform, and felt sudden doubt.

Dick only got to the target as well as he did because he had moved so quickly. Their mission succeeded because of his experience. This whole gripe with his father… was starting to make more sense. Dick shouldn't be Batman.

But if not him, then who? Could anyone really replace Bruce?

Dick was the only one standing between Bruce Wayne and Batman. Damian thought of his father's injury, of the fall that caused his broken back, the damage done in the same place that had been broken so long ago… and if that damage were to happen a third time...

"You're right," Damian said, averting his gaze. He didn't want to think about his father injuring himself again, but he also didn't want to think about the sacrifice Dick was making.

Damian didn't know how many years Dick would be Batman. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe for the rest of their lives. But what concerned Damian more was how much time Richard had left to be Richard.

They continued walking towards the Batmobile. Damian trailed behind, watching Dick's cape sweep his own footprints in the snow. Suddenly Dick paused mid-trail, turning his head towards something.

Damian looked on curiously as Dick knelt down to pluck something from the snow. He started to wipe it off.

"What is it?" Damian asked. When Dick was done brushing the snow off, the form was revealed, and the elder crimefighter started laughing.

"Must be destiny," he said as he handed it to Damian. Damian looked down at the object in his hands. A glass bird that fit in the palm of his hand, sizable but as light as a feather. "I'm surprised it hasn't shattered."

"What is it?" Damian said, quirking an eyebrow.

"Duh. A robin for a Robin."

" _Tt_. I get your stupid joke. I meant what _is_ it?"

"It has a string on the top. Must be an ornament that got abandoned. I think they had a Christmas tree on display around here. The little guy must have gotten buried."

"Christmas is over. What am I going to do with this?"

"You can never have fun, can you?"

"You're asking me to hoard, not have fun." Damian looked down at the bird, its body transparent, the only details being the faint red stains on its crown and chest and its golden eyes. It looked cheap but it managed to survive in the snow. It was just an object, Damian knew that, and yet… it seemed to have a life to it. "I suppose it'd be a shame to get rid of it."

"That's the spirit."

They turned to move when Damian suddenly stopped midstep. A sharp, shooting pain struck him through the temple. Damian reached to touch his head, a groan escaping him. Dick looked at him, confused.

"Robin?"

Damian looked up at Dick, but his vision was blurring. The points of Dick's cowl seemed to grow longer, the lenses of his cowl disappearing, the blackness of his cape extending until Damian could no longer see the difference between form and shadow.

The shooting pain in his head returned and Damian was shaking. His head fell down, looking at the object in his hand. He couldn't remember what he was holding so he dropped it.

It fell from his hands. He watched it fall, hitting the ground, the glass bursting. The shards shimmering in the dim light, reflecting, shining, until it bled into the snow. Red and black crossed his vision. He closed his eyes.

 _The blood of the demon_.

He was back in that place. That dark place. The place that brought a pain to his core. A memory of a scar. The place, dark. So lost.

Damian clenched his eyes shut. Confusion. Head throbbing.

There had been heat, so hot it burned. It burned at his skin, piece by piece, from the inside out. His bones, the muscle, the tissue, the flesh—hot, burning hot. Heat bubbling up around him. Like an infant in the womb. Ready to be born.

 _No, that's not right_. Damian shook his head to himself. He would know nothing about that. He was artificially born. Would never know what it was like to be tethered to a mother.

 _I offered you the world_.

The colors of fire had bursted around him. He had crawled out, wet and reborn. Something was scratching at him from the inside of his mind. It was itching, clawing, to get out. It had made him laugh. Laugh so hard it hurt. And in his mind was a symphony. A symphony of bones crunching beneath him, the sound of skull hitting the ground, and a singing. A singing inside his head as he did terrible things. A singing that rises, like a heartbeat. His heartbeat. Pounding in his ears. Like a drum, faster and faster, rising with excitement, thrill. Adrenaline in his veins. Blood rushing, red, red blood. As red as the stains saturating the ground.

A singing as he did terrible things, things he promised to never do again. A singing deep inside, in the corners of his mind. He tried not to hear it. But he feels it. Feels it beneath his skin, inside of him.

 _No_. It can't be inside of him.

A hand grabbed him by the shoulder. He jumped, everything fastforwarding to that moment. He takes a breath, cold air travelling through his lungs. A sheen of sweat on his forehead. His heart rate coming to a slow, returning to its resting pace. Damian stared down. The glass sat unceremoniously at his feet. Broken.

He turned back. Dick didn't remove the hand. His gaze was fixed at him, deep with concern.

"Are you okay?"

"Headache. I'm fine," he said shortly. It was obvious that Dick wasn't convinced that was the whole story, especially by the skeptical look that followed. But he removed the hand, and Damian found himself missing its presence.


	3. Second Winter

**A/N** : Another reminder, this chapter takes place around one year after Chapter One.

A few additional warnings pertaining to this chapter: mentions of past torture, murder and violence against women (all related to a case). Also, still be aware of the warnings included in the prologue.

* * *

Second Winter

* * *

Damian usually awoke on his own. That was always the first plan. Pennyworth waking him came second, and the alarm clocks came third. When the clock's chirping rattled the room, he opened his eyes groggily. _Rough start_ , he thought as he slammed the alarm button. The past few nights had been rough. It had been getting harder to sleep.

Normally Pennyworth was the one to awake him if he needed waking, but these days, it was him that had to be attended to. He was sick again and had been spending more time sleeping in his room. Since Pennyworth didn't wake him, he'd probably have to make his own breakfast that morning and drive himself to school.

He grabbed his school uniform from the closet and carried it to the joined bathroom. He showered, trying to will himself awake the entire time. After finishing his usual morning routine, he dressed and headed for the kitchen. Maybe he'd just grab a breakfast bar or a piece of fruit or something.

Titus was sitting outside his bedroom door waiting for him, per usual. Damian patted his head as he walked by and Titus immediately set to trailing after him.

They were walking down the grand staircase when Damian caught something in his peripherals.

 _What_? he thought, frowning. He even paused in place. He almost thought he saw a body moving into the kitchen, but Pennyworth was in his room, his father should be heading into the office by now and Richard was usually still asleep during the day.

"Titus. Stay," Damian said under his breath. Titus immediately sat down on the step, though he seemed to look up at Damian curiously.

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Damian descended the rest of the staircase and cautiously toed his way into the kitchen, careful not to make any noise. He looked around the doorway and saw the fridge wide open, being rummaged through. Whoever it was, they were moving around pretty familiarly, but…

Damian didn't lower his guard. He padded around the island to get a better look at the intruder who was bending over to dig in their fridge.

He was greeted by long, creamy legs and a large posterior that was covered in black lacy underwear.

"Who are you?" Damian said and he was responded with a woman's yelp, followed by the sound of the butter tray being bumped into as she jumped in place. When the woman turned around to reveal herself, she was a stranger wearing nothing but her underwear and a shirt that was too big for her.

She looked at Damian with big, startled eyes. Her red hair settled around her shoulders.

Damian's face fell. _Oh_.

"Shit. I-I'm so sorry. You scared me," she said quickly, putting her hand to her chest. _Obviously_ , Damian thought, remembering the pitiful noise she made. "Dick said everyone would be out of the house or asleep and he said I should make myself at home so I..." She trailed off, biting her bottom lip.

Damian had no time for her clumsy pattering. "Move," he said bluntly, and he reached past her to grab his already-packed lunch out of the fridge.

After Damian grabbed a granola bar and an apple off the counter, the woman held out her hand and offered an awkward smile.

"Hi. I'm—"

"I stopped caring," Damian said, taking a bite out of his apple. He walked out of the kitchen, Titus finally moving from his spot to bid him goodbye.

* * *

"Bruce brought women over all of the time," Dick said, looking annoyed. "And he wasn't subtle about it. I've actually _seen_ Vikki Vale's breasts in-person, you know. He just happened to slow down by the time you entered the family."

"It's obscene," Damian said with a flat tone, scowling all the while. "You've been living here for, what, a year now? Believe me, I'm used to you flaunting your women around—my point is that they can at least wear clothes if they're going to parade through the manor."

"I don't flaunt _anything_ ," Dick said, and when Damian snorted in disbelief, Dick corrected himself. "Fine. I don't flaunt my… _friends_. I only bring guests when no one is home. Sorry. I thought you were already in school. My mistake."

"Again, you moved back in a year ago. You should know what time I go to school by now."

"I'm usually passed out until late afternoon because of all _this_ bullshit," Dick said, lifting a barbell above his head almost for emphasis. "It's not my fault she turned out to be an early riser. Now quit lecturing me and spot."

"I can talk while spotting you," Damian said, rolling his eyes. He looked down at his phone to change songs, one earbud hanging down to listen to Dick. "It's not like you need my help anyways."

"I don't know," Dick said as he did another rep. He took a deep breath. "I've been lifting more since my little promotion. The weight could be a little too much— _whoa_!"

Damian jumped as he saw the barbell wobble, his phone dropping out of his hands. He immediately lurched to help hold it for Dick but when he leaned over to grab the bar from Dick's hands, their eyes locked, and Dick started laughing. Damian deadpanned. It was just another one of Richard's dumb pranks.

" _Idiot_ ," Damian said, saying it as if it were a curse. "If you actually start to drop it, I'll let it fall on you. We'll see how long you laugh with crushed lungs."

" _Meh_. Batman doesn't need to talk."

"Also, redhead?" Damian said, reverting the topic. " _Seriously_? Could you be any more predictable? Did Vikki Vale jumpstart your campaign of sexualizing gingers?"

"I have my weaknesses," Dick said, hanging up the barbell. He sat up, looking at Damian with a small smirk, and said, "She told me how you found her. I guess you've discovered my other weakness."

The image of the woman's ass in the air reappeared in Damian's mind. Damian bent to grab his phone off the ground, hiding his pink face. He muttered, " _Tt_. Pervert. You better not bring her over again."

At that, Dick didn't laugh. "Probably won't," was all he said, grabbing his towel at the end of the bench to wipe the sweat off his face. At his words, Damian made a face. He wasn't sure what to scold Dick for—sleeping around with multiple women, or sleeping around period. The former was impossible to avoid unless Dick wanted to resolve his commitment issues, and the latter felt unfair to ask of him. In the end, Damian had little say in what Dick did in what little spare time he had.

Besides, what did he care?

"Fine. Sleep with her. Just don't do it here again."

Dick shrugged. "I don't have time for her. Which is a shame." He rubbed his hands over his face, groaning, "I met her through some old circus friends. She's a _contortionist_."

"For fuck's sake, quit it."

"Your face is turning red."

"Only because of secondhand embarassment—it's like you don't even listen to yourself when you talk."

" _Sure_ it is," Dick said sarcastically. Damian pretended to look at his phone but he could barely concentrate on the titles of the songs he was scrolling past. "You avoid the subject, but I was sixteen once upon a time. I know how it is. You have working hormones, I assume. I'm sure there are lots of girls at Gotham Academy." Damian flashed Dick a disgusted look. Dick raised a brow. "Boys?"

" _Second. Hand. Embarrassment_ ," Damian repeated, piece by piece.

"Avoiding. The. Subject."

"Maybe I'm not like you. Maybe I don't feel a compulsive need to fuck anything and everything that moves," Damian said, becoming annoyed at Dick's prying.

"Hey, not _everything_. Also, _heh_ , cussing does not suit you at all."

Damian grew more irritated. "If you need to drown yourself in one-night stands just to feel loved, that's your life. I don't need to share the same insecurities."

Dick gave a sad look that reminded Damian of Titus whenever he was scolded. "Ouch."

Damian couldn't tell how much of that was Richard being genuine or Richard pretending to be hurt for sympathy. He shrugged, telling himself that it wasn't his problem. "Whatever."

"Suit yourself. But I'm sure your piss-poor attitude is breaking a lot of teenaged hearts," Dick said, grinning. Damian just rolled his eyes.

Dick stood up, tossing his towel on his shoulder and moving to another machine. Damian's gaze followed him. More often than usual, at least as of late, Dick had gotten in the habit of working out shirtless. Damian wasn't sure what was more suiting—his narrower, lithe frame back in his Nightwing days, or the extra muscle he had bulked up on in the past few months. Damian saw him everyday so it was hard to compare.

Dick kneeled down to set the weights on a machine. Damian could see the size of his shoulders, the muscles in his back, the curve of his spine.

More often than usual, as of late, Damian caught himself staring.

When Richard looked over his shoulder back at him, Damian wondered if he noticed him watching. But then Dick gave a small smile, his deep blue eyes seeming to strike Damian right through the chest, and he said, "It's a shame."

 _It is_ , Damian immediately thought, his mouth dry. But then he remembered what they were talking about.

"I have myself," Damian said. "That's all I need."

* * *

They were running late that night. Monthly maintenance, involving citywide camera and radar installation, kept them a few minutes off-schedule. It didn't help that GCPD kept uninstalling every bat-cam they came across—their workloads had increased as a result. By the time they reached an alley to meet with Barbara Gordon, she was shivering and pale.

"Sorry," Dick apologized when they approached her.

"It's fine. I know how the vigilante business gets," she said.

"You cut your hair," Dick noted. It was hard to tell underneath her hat but Damian caught a few short strands sticking out. It was the shortest he had ever seen it. Barbara eyed Dick cautiously.

"It kept getting in the way," she said stiffly.

"It, uh, looks nice."

Damian rolled his eyes. Why was every conversation with these two awkward? He knew _why_ , of course, but the two should be able to make small talk at this point. It had been years since their big fight, and more years since they had dated.

Barbara crossed her arms a little closer to her body, her eyes darting to the side. "Are we going to talk about the case?"

"Right," Dick said, looking at the ground. "So what have you found out?"

"I'm going to show you," she said. She looked a little conflicted. "The crime scene is off limits. Like, _I can get fired_ off limits."

"Then we'll have to make sure no one sees us go in," Damian said.

"Technically I'm not allowed to even be seen with you _now_ ," Barbara said, pulling her jacket around her a little tighter as a cold gust passed them. "If the commissioner finds out that any of GCPD is working with you guys—"

"Maybe he should focus less on us and focus on catching the bad guys," Damian said, annoyed. Any sentence involving the new commissioner changed his mood. He could tell by Dick's tight expression that he agreed.

"To him, you two _are_ the bad guys," Barbara said, frowning. "But enough of that. Let's get to business."

Barbara led the way toward the crime scene, a small house. She paused at a doorway that was blocked off with caution tape. She bit her bottom lip and looked at them.

"I'll be honest. This scene… wasn't pretty. Even with my experience."

Damian raised an eyebrow at that. Barbara had a pretty strong stomach—it came with the vigilante gig. Soon it all made sense. When they tiptoed over the caution tape and into the house, most of the house had been emptied of evidence. A few things were marked with cards.

But the noticeable thing was a lingering smell.

"How many bodies?" Dick said, coughing.

"Just one," Barbara said. She reached into her jacket, pulling out an envelope. She showed them pictures.

Damian's eyebrows furrowed at the first picture, a small sense of nausea overcoming him. He matched the pictures to the crime scene, blood splatters all marked with little numbers.

"This house was home to a young widow. No children. We believe the perpetrator infiltrated her house, kept her prisoner and tortured her in her own home," Barbara said. Dick and Damian huddled to look at her pictures, all describing her theory.

"Disgusting," Damian said, his anger rising as Barbara showed pictures of recovered objects.

"The neighbors noticed she wasn't coming out of the house as often. She stopped showing up to work. There were two noted police reports but whenever officers came to her house, she answered the door and appeared fine. But there was no way that any of this happened recently—her murderer must have made her lie." Barbara shook her head to herself. "That smell? Most of the house is an absolute mess. Hasn't been cleaned in months. There are blood and urine stains in the carpet, the blood dating as far back as June."

"So who are we chasing after? Any sights of anyone else entering or leaving the house?" Dick asked.

"None," Barbara said, frowning. "We're thinking that she was killed because of the growing suspicions. The attacker must have killed her and ran. We have fingerprints but no matches, and the house hasn't been cleaned in so long that we don't know whose fingerprints belongs to _who_. Whoever it is who killed her, he or she is running free, and who knows if it'll happen again? But once we find the attacker, we'll be able to pin them. We have too much evidence for them to walk free."

"Or they'll end up in Arkham like last time," Dick said with a sigh.

Damian already started to wander around the house, moving into the basement where most of the pictures were taken. Dick and Barbara's voices faded into the background as he descended down the staircase, each creak growing louder with each step. There was a foul air in the room as Damian made it to the final step, an ominous feeling growing into the pit of his stomach.

Most of the basement had been cleared or sectioned off but Damian was able to put it together with the pictures. The workbench had been over there. The restraints had been over there. A bad feeling seemed to spread inside of him. Every etching in the floor and wall seemed like a scar. Pain and fear and sadness seemed to seep into the walls.

But it was just a basement. A simple room with four walls, a window in the top corner, a water heater tucked under the staircase.

As he circled the room, he tried to look for clues of anything that GCPD might have missed, but it seemed like it had been wiped clean.

Detective work was never Damian's strong suit. He always thought of how people _should_ think instead of what they _would_ think. He left those areas to his father, with his uncanny ability to notice details, and Dick, with his natural talent of being able to empathize. Damian was better at the punching business.

But he knew he had to at least try. If he had any ambitions of becoming a greater crimefighter, which he did, he would have to be able to solve his cases. So he tried to think of what the killer might have done and what secrets might have been clumsily left behind.

He sighed a little in frustration. What reason would there be to torture someone unless it was for more information? Damian had never seen a case quite like this, but he had enough experience to know that the perpetrator did this for pleasure, not for business. He _knew_ that but he couldn't _understand_ that.

She had been in that corner.

Damian slowly approached the little spot in the corner of the basement where the GCPD had found restraints. The more Damian looked at the spot, the smaller it seemed. Without thinking, Damian took a spot on the floor and turned his back to the wall.

The first thing he noticed was the window. So clear in his vision, but so far away. The restraints would never have allowed her to get that far. The more Damian looked at the window, the more uncomfortable he felt. If it was _him_ , he would have broke those restraints and ran for that window. But it wasn't him… it was her…

Damian tried to imagine. Tried to imagine what it would be like to sit on that cold, hard ground in that filthy basement and have to stare at that window. It seemed to mock him, teasing him with thoughts of freedom. Insulting his strength and resolve. But then he remembered that the restraints were simply chains bolted to the wall.

Maybe he wouldn't have to face that window. He turned away from it, and even though he knew it was there, he didn't have to look at it. Didn't have to face it. Turning around also tore his gaze away from where the workbench had been—the one filled with instruments used for torture.

But the new view wasn't much better. Nothing but concrete and bricked walls. These walls that had witnessed everything, filled with pain and secrets.

These walls.

Damian's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He scooted in a little closer. There were scratches in the brick. Making sure that his gloves were on so it didn't tamper with evidence, he reached forward and managed to wiggle the brick out. As he leaned in closer, he noticed something crumpled sitting inside.

He pulled it out, finding what appeared to be a piece of frayed linen. He unraveled it, a little scrap of fabric that looked like it had been ripped off—maybe from the clothing she had been wearing?

Signed in blood was a name.

Damian quickly moved back up the steps to report the findings to Batman. As he climbed the staircase, Dick and Barbara's voices began to drift into his ears.

"Your dad… you never told me…" That was Dick's voice.

"I don't feel the need to tell you about every little thing that goes on in my life," came Barbara's response, her voice sounding a little cold.

"He was important to me too, Babs."

Damian reached the top of the staircase. They had been surveying the living room, the only lighting being their flashlights. Even so, Damian saw Barbara's face turn red. "Don't you dare call me that. Not in _that_ voice."

Damian cleared his throat. Dick and Barbara stepped away from one another, creating distance. Barbara turned her head to hide her embarrassment. Damian shrugged it off.

"I found something."

He handed it over to Dick.

"Anna Brown?" Dick said.

"A woman?" Barbara said, raising an eyebrow. "Of course it's possible but it's unusual with these sort of cases—"

"It could just be a name the victim picked up. Anna Brown might not necessarily be the perpetrator. She could be someone close to the case—whether a friend, a loved one, or—"

"Another victim," Barbara finished for Dick. She shook her head to herself. "It seems like a common name. There could be dozens of Anna Browns in Gotham. You'll have to look into it. It's the only real clue we have. I'll see if any of the hair and fingerprints found match that name."

Dick tried to hand the fabric to Barbara but she shook her head.

"I can't use this evidence. If I did, I would have to explain to GCPD how and when I found it—and no one is allowed here. Besides, unless CSI picks it up or there was a witness, the courts won't give a damn." Barbara crossed her arms and said, her voice a shade lower, "We're on our own now."

Dick and Damian started to return home. The night still had an hour left for them so they took to the rooftops to patrol the city as they made their slow trek back.

"You did good."

The rock salt scraped beneath Damian's boots as they landed on a clear rooftop—the rest were covered in melting snow. His heart jumped at the praise but he managed to feign indignation.

" _Tt_. I always do good," he said.

"I meant finding the lead," Dick said, and the corner of his lips manage to quirk into a smile. The look was almost smug, like he could see right through Damian's front—and he probably did. "That was good detective work. You're learning."

"Was there any doubt?" Damian said, returning the smug look.

"I mean, your strong suits are usually the punchy-thing, not the thinky-thing, so… yeah?"

"You're right. I am good at punching things."

"Hey, it wasn't meant to be an insult. Can't I compliment a guy?"

"I don't believe thinking is your strong suit either," Damian said, launching his grappling gun to the next rooftop. He could hear Dick beginning to apologize but Damian was already swinging forward. His lead helped him hide his smile.

* * *

"Great," Bruce said sarcastically, his voice a low rumble. Damian glanced over to the computer, where Bruce and Dick were practically glued to the monitors.

"But that's _not_ him. It can't be, could it?" Dick said, scooting in closer to stare at the mugshots on the screen.

"You _had_ to have been seen," Bruce said, rolling the computer chair back. The frustration in his voice was not lost.

"We've taken out _all_ of their cameras," Dick argued. "Batman hasn't been seen in weeks. _Gotham Gazette_ is even theorizing that Batman is over—"

"Then why is GCPD arresting these suspects like it's a goddamn race?" Bruce said with a growl. He stopped and sighed, resting his forehead on his fist. His voice, restrained, slowly said, "I told you that with Commissioner Gordon gone—"

"I _never_ left a trail—"

Bruce slowly raised his voice over Dick's words of protest. "GCPD will never want you to take another case, much less _win_ one, so you need to—"

"Proceed with caution, document everything, yada-yada, I _get it_ , Bruce. I don't know how they knew Batman was after this case. Hell, maybe they _didn't_. Maybe they _actually_ thought those guys were worth arresting or wanted to satisfy the media. It's too early to assume that they're arresting these people only because they're afraid that Batman will catch the killer first."

"The commissioner has it out for you—"

"I'll talk to Babs. I'll see what the GCPD is thinking and—"

"Don't do that," Bruce said, the urgency in his voice cancelling out any composure he might have had. "That is the _last_ thing I want you to do."

"You're seriously _that_ paranoid," Dick said in disbelief, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms. "This is Barbara we're talking about. _Batgirl_?"

The anger in the room was growing palpable. Damian shook his head to himself and resumed helping Pennyworth organize the the utility shelves. Even at their safe distance, the rising voices could not be ignored.

"She hasn't gone by that name in _years_."

"We wouldn't even _had_ that lead if it wasn't for her!"

"And maybe she is the reason why they know you're on this case."

"Last I checked, she still had a job."

"They want an eye on you as much as you want an eye on them."

"You think she's _spying_ on us? God, I always knew you were crazy, but this—"

"Don't let your feelings blind you. We know that we can't trust GCPD. We know that GCPD is working against us. We know that Barbara _is_ GCPD, therefore—"

"With all due respect, Sir, Miss Barbara _is_ part of the Family," Alfred said, finally speaking up. Dick and Bruce stopped arguing to look. "I'm afraid I dislike these accusations. While Miss Barbara does, indeed, work for the GCPD and gave up the cowl, she is still invested in helping our cause—"

"She wants to be Commissioner. That's the plan. In order to do that, she needs to be efficient."

"So you think she's selling us out for a _job_?" Dick said.

Another spat quickly ensued and soon, Alfred and Damian were once again just bystanders.

"Ignore it, Pennyworth. Let them have their little shouting game," Damian said as he lined up some batarangs in a neatly cushioned box.

"Fortunately, it has been awhile since the last one," Pennyworth said with a sigh, plucking a grappling hook from the wall and polishing it. Looking weary, he added, "But it is an old, family past time."

* * *

Gotham never rested.

Even though the talk around the city was centered around the killer, there was still work to be done. The police were distracted by the case. When the media wasn't talking about the case's leaked details, they were questioning the disappearance of Batman.

In the past year, the growing rift between Batman and the GCPD had forced Batman to hide in the shadows—or risk being caught and arrested. When he was spotted, he was leaner and slighter than the "real" Batman, leaving the public suspicious about "the true" Batman's whereabouts. Batman had become more of a legend than a hero.

As a result, petty crime rates had risen. Witness accounts only got so far. People wanted photographs and videos, of which there were few, and no criminal was intimidated by the smaller, "imposter" Batman. It seemed that every night, there was more work to be done, and with the city in chaos, the nights were so different.

Damian wondered if he was panting because he was tired or because the cold air was so dense.

They chased down their enemies—they were just a neighborhood gang, but their usual vandalism had become increasingly violent in the past few weeks. They had created their own territory and terrorized anyone within their range. Their victims were of all ages, all races—anyone was free game. And for them, it _was_ a game.

The gang was incredibly young—many of them were around Damian's age, but still managed to have an impressive array of arsenal.

The amount of contraband in Gotham had also significantly increased within the past year—yet another thing that was sitting on Batman and Robin's list of things to take care of.

Batman had taken to the rooftops as Robin chased them, herding them into an alley. Dick made his entrance, cutting off their paths by swooping down in front of them. They were surrounded—but what these teenagers made up for in lack of ambition and experience was energy and numbers. It wasn't long before switchblades and bats were swinging.

One of them had a gun and even appeared to be a pretty good shot, but he became a primary target, and Damian didn't let him get far before kicking the weapon out of his hand.

They weren't experienced fighters, but they were stubborn in getting knocked down and moved unpredictably. Damian moved around them easily enough. Dick took a few hits, but nothing he couldn't take due to the increased armor of the Batman suit and his rigorous training in the past few years.

Each of their hands held a different weapon. A dagger. A nail-bat. Damian couldn't withhold snickering a little at the crowbar.

But it was a long fight, especially after the chase they gave. And even Damian wasn't immune to mistakes.

Those that had the common sense to realize they were losing decided to take off. Damian's head turned as he heard them drop their weapons at once and run. He had an opponent's wrists in his hands, and the moment of distraction was all his foe needed.

The cry in Damian's throat was choked as pain shot in through his hand. He stumbled backwards a step, more stunned than anything. He had been raised to be immune to pain, and he had received worse than this, but it had been so long since—

Damian looked down. The dagger had managed to pierce through his glove, pushed through his palm and exiting through the back of his hand. Blood dripped, disappearing into the black ground of the dirty, dark alley.

The stabber took off, jetting past Batman. Dick saw him go and stopped to turn and look at Robin. Even beneath the cowl, Damian could see that Dick had recognized his wound. Dick stepped forward to help but Damian shook his head.

"Go after them!" he said. Dick gave him a reluctant look but took off.

Damian turned to his hand. Inhaling deep, he grabbed the dagger by the handle and yanked it back out. He bit back his cry of pain, refusing to yell over it. The blood, hot and scarlet-red, spilled forth from the wound. His hand trembled in pain. He wondered if it'd bleed out. If it was infected.

Couldn't worry about it, he decided. Had to keep going.

He tossed the dagger aside. Clenching his maimed hand into a fist, the blood seeping into the ripped remains of his glove, he gritted his teeth and carried on.

He turned the corner where Dick had managed to catch one in a net. He was still actively pursuing a group of others. Damian chased after them, the cold air entering his lungs, and each breath felt heavier and louder than the last.

The night seemed to be eerily silent. His breaths and beating of his heart grew louder. In the distance he heard footsteps splashing in slush and voices carried in the winds, but they seemed faded, muffled.

He had felt worse things than the pain in his hand. His mind seemed to shut out the pain entirely. Nothing hurt anymore.

But Damian did feel a sensation. Something deep inside his core that _reminded_ him of pain, but didn't _feel_ pain. The sensation, like steel slipping inside of him, so similar to the dagger in his hand. So similar. Followed by a burning. A deep burning.

Damian's eyes widened. The whole world had felt like a blur, and in an instant, the burning and the pain disappeared and his vision became clear. He was out of breath but his breathing did not seem so loud—other sounds, smaller sounds, became more audible. He was back in the moment and suddenly, he remembered why he was running.

He hadn't realized that he had already caught up. He immediately grabbed the nearest tool on his belt, a disc that he tossed at the foe's ankle, staggering him. He passed Dick, closing the remaining distance and knocking down the opponent. There was a few others that were getting further and further away, splintering off into different directions, but Damian didn't focus on them, instead leaving them to Dick and tying down the enemy that he caught.

After it was done, he rose to his feet. He saw a figure disappearing in the distance.

Damian moved a few strides forward but stopped, realizing he would never catch them on foot. Another day, he decided, feeling defeated. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow and looked.

Dick was returning from whatever direction he had run off in.

"Robin," he said, approaching.

"Did he get away?" Damian asked but he shut his mouth when he saw the serious expression on Dick's face.

"Let me see," Dick said, holding out his hand. It took Damian a second to realize Dick was referring to his injured hand—he had almost forgotten about it, in all of the excitement. But it was hardly worth the worry.

He was hardly worth the worry.

"It's fine," Damian said coolly.

"I wasn't asking," Dick said. Damian blinked at the stern voice, wondering if perhaps it was just the cowl.

He almost sounded like Bruce.

Damian didn't give his hand willingly, Dick had to grab his wrist. Damian glared, annoyed, but gritted his teeth and resisted saying anything as Dick tugged off the glove.

He turned the hand over, greeted by smooth skin.

Damian's heart skipped a beat, perplexed by his own hand. He felt the smooth leather of Dick's glove as the thumb ran over the intact, scarless hand. Damian thought of the pain, wondered if had been a dream, but the skin was still stained with his own blood. The cut was just… gone. When Damian dared to look up, he caught Dick staring back at him. Even beneath the whited lenses, Damian could see the question there. The confusion.

Damian responded by yanking his hand away.

"I told you it was fine," he said, and he took back his ripped glove. He threw his hood on and headed back to round up the gang members that they had managed to catch.

They could only do so much. At this point in time, all they could do was call GCPD and hope that they'd be arrested this time around. The entire time, that questioning look lingered on Dick's expression. Damian was careful to avoid looking at him, and as they heard the sirens in the distance, they knew they had to make their immediate retreat.

Damian made sure to get a headstart, not wanting to follow Dick. When he was in the batmobile, alone, he looked down at his hand.

 _How_?

Damian's face twisted in confusion, not understanding what was happening. The past few months had been strange, sure, but this was absurd. This was something he couldn't ignore and now Richard knew too. Knew that something was going on, even if neither understood exactly what. Knew that Damian was weird.

Damian stared at his hand. Remembered the way Dick had grabbed it from him, his words conveying his concern, the way his thumb trailed so slowly over the palm of his skin…

Or maybe Damian just imagined it had been slowly.

Just like how he was imagining how it would have felt if Richard's hand hadn't been gloved. A touch without boundaries. Just the feel of skin touching skin, rather than the glove. Richard's touch, not Batman's. He wondered if it would have felt nicer.

The sound of the door opening forced Damian to look away, pulling the glove back on. He glanced down at the floor, making sure to turn his head away from Richard. His face felt… warm.

Dick didn't put the car in drive. It was exactly what Damian was afraid would happen—Dick wanted to talk and he wanted to talk now, even if it meant the risk of getting cornered by the police.

"Damian," Dick said, the identity slipping from his lips. The car was soundproof but it was still taboo to say their identities while in uniform. Dick should have known this, known this longer than anyone, and yet… Dick sighed a little when Damian was stubbornly quiet, said, "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to say."

"What happened to your hand? I saw it. The knife went right through it. I saw—"

"I don't know," Damian finally said, exasperated. The words made him both frustrated and relieved. It felt like a confession. Dick was quiet for a moment.

"Does anyone else know?"

"This is the first time."

"Is there anything else going on?"

Damian thought of the headaches he'd experienced. The images in his mind. The words. The singing.

His face burned. "Not that I've noticed," he said. _Liar_ , a voice whispered in the back of his head.

Dick nodded slowly to himself, letting this information sink in. A tense silence filled the car, Damian's heart thumping all the while. He wanted nothing more than to be in his own room at that moment, alone.

"I have to tell Bruce."

Damian bristled at that. "You can't. You know how he is."

"He has better resources of looking into what is causing this than I do. Damian, that's not normal. You can't just heal from injuries like that… no human can."

"He'll demand that I stop. He'll make me stop." Damian didn't want to stop.

"Just until he figures out what's wrong."

"It's not hurting me." Damian gritted his teeth.

"You don't know what's causing it."

" _Stop trying to fix me_!" Damian snapped. At that, Dick could only stare back, surprised. Damian slowly shrank back from his own outburst, his chest twisting. Lowering his voice, Damian said, "I'm fine." He wasn't sure if it was true or if he just wanted it to be.

Finally, Dick started the batmobile, the lights bringing the car to life. Dick said, "Okay."

Damian looked up incredulously. "Okay?"

"Okay," he said, nodding. "I won't tell Bruce."

Damian was admittedly relieved, but for once, he could read Richard's mood—and he could tell that he wasn't happy about the decision.

* * *

Damian couldn't stop thinking about Richard's touch.

It was inappropriate, Damian knew. It might have been a beautiful moment. A moment between comrades. A mentor and his sidekick. Two people who considered each other friends. _Brothers_ , even.

It wasn't right for Damian to sully it. But he can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop thinking of the way his hand was held, that thumb crossing his skin. Dick was just concerned. It was loving, yes, but only platonically.

He shouldn't be thinking of it this way.

But Damian can't help it. He's known it for awhile. Thought about it months ago, when he started having these strange visions, and Dick had placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. _No, further than that_.

It had started years ago. Back when he was nothing but a child, a far cry from the size he was since his growth spurt. Strong but small. Arrogant but insecure. Tough but fragile. In a time where snow was falling and all Dick had to do was _smile_ and Damian felt safe from all of his weaknesses. Back before the visions and the fear and Richard was just Richard. Back when things were where they were supposed to be and Damian was too young to grasp his feelings, when his affection was innocent and honest and he didn't have to do _this_ in the middle of the night.

Damian turned on his side, his sheets clinging to the sweat on his skin. He breathed in deeply through his nose, his breath hitching as he stroked his aching cock. He was getting frustrated. Couldn't get comfortable. Couldn't meet that edge that he needed to reach his climax.

Perhaps he was overexerting himself. In the beginning, when his body was starting to experience changes, he knew—on a scientific level—what was happening to himself. But he had no idea how to remedy it, so he tried to ignore it. When he first started to touch himself, he had been almost afraid. But now it was almost as frequent as sleeping, and every night, his head was always filled with the same thoughts.

Inappropriate thoughts.

This was inappropriate.

Damian's free hand twisted in the sheets, his toes clenching and unclenching as his hand stroked himself, closer to the tip now, his precum sticking to his hands, making him feel filthy. A little better now. He turns his head, burying his head in the pillow to bury his noises. No one could know.

Richard was right down the hall.

His mind drowned in thoughts, wondering how nice it'd be if Richard came into his room right now and helped him relieve this frustration. Damian could picture that perfect smile, that smile that was genuine but had that tinge of mischief to it, that heart-stopping, heartthrob-like smile that had women crawling into the manor when no one was supposed to be home.

And in moments like this, when the heat rushes to his face and groin, and he has to bite at the pillow to avoid making some noise that sounds lonely in his otherwise silent room, Damian can imagine what it would be like to kiss that smile.

And sometimes, that's enough.

Damian doesn't fight it. His mind drifts into fantasies as his body shakes in climax, filling his hand with hot, thick seed. Damian groans once more as his orgasm washes over him. When his body settles, he relaxes into the sheets.

 _Disgusting_ , he immediately thought, cleaning his hands in the sheets. There was a point in time where he fought against all the desires of the flesh, but the older he got, the harder it became to resist. Now, he didn't bother fighting it. It made him feel weak, caving into human desires so easily.

Not to mention his thoughts...

He was supposed to be more controlled than this. More disciplined than this. But stupid Richard had crawled into his mind and was messing with his brain, and the more time they spent together, the less Damian could fight the thoughts. And these days, all they did was spend time together. Damian could say, easily with zero hesitation, that Richard was his only true friend.

And that's exactly what made this so damn difficult.

He gets up and gets ready for the day. He showers and brushes his teeth, he grabs his uniform and his bag, and he goes through his usual routine. School feels like a chore. His classes are too easy, and high school is just a front for the life he's hiding—a life where he spends his nights cleaning up the city. There's this girl who keeps asking him to join the chess team, all based on a single game she had watched Damian play in the library by himself between classes, and for the first time, Damian wondered what would happen if he had said yes.

If he had the time, would he go? Would he give up crime fighting, give up Robin, to join an extracurricular? Would he actually be able to have a conversation with his schoolmates, be able to work past his own awkwardness and his inability to connect with other people, and make friends?

It seemed like the right thing to do—to live a normal life. But it was so far beyond Damian's understanding that he could barely imagine it.

When he returned home, he immediately went toward the cave to do his daily training.

Damian made it to the final steps of the staircase, spotting his father, alone, at the desk.

It was an odd scene to see his father by himself these days. While his father had made it his duty to study the cases, Dick was usually heavily involved in the process—especially as of late. As Damian approached the monitors, the scene became stranger still—the files his father was viewing didn't concern the case at all. Instead he was looking at a map far from Gotham.

"My mother?" Damian guessed and Bruce stopped and looked at him, mild surprise in his eyes. Damian looked at him. "I recognize those mountains. It's an old hideout."

"You never told me."

"I didn't think I would have to," Damian said, shrugging. "An avalanche destroyed most of it a long time ago. It didn't contain a Lazarus Pit, so it wasn't important enough to need rebuilding. I spent my fourth birthday there and this is my first time seeing it since. Is that where she is now?"

"I don't know," Bruce said.

"Are you being honest?" Damian asked quietly. Bruce contemplated over Damian's words.

Reluctantly, he responded, "I've noticed some activity there. League activity. I think it might be a lead to your mother." He paused before asking, "Are you sure there is no Lazarus Pit?"

"I'm sure of it. I threw a fit because Grandfather wasn't there. I was too young at the time to understand why he wasn't, but now—"

"I see," Bruce said, and the conversation fell quiet. Damian shifted his weight to his other leg, feeling uncomfortable.

"I want to catch her as much as you do," Damian said, frowning. "She may be my mother—but my loyalty lies with you."

"I know," Bruce said quietly. "But it's still a position I don't wish for you to be in."

"But it's the position that I've made peace with," Damian said. "If you have any further research to do with the League of Assassins, you should consult me. I'll tell you everything that I know." Damian looked away awkwardly. "Besides, if the League of Assassins are making a move, it's going to be Batman and Robin's responsibility to get involved. You can't separate me from this."

"I know," Bruce said again, his voice ever quieter. Damian tore his gaze away. His father was older than his years and was crippled—and Damian hated looking at him when it showed. It reminded him that his father was mortal—and worse, just a man.

Damian stared at the map, distant memories floating in his mind. He tried to wish them away but he found them lingering—and while most of his childhood memories had soured over time due to his rivalry with his mother, he couldn't help but feel a yearning in his chest as he thought of simpler times.

For all of her cruelty and treachery, Talia had truly made him believe that he was a prince. And with all of the places he had been and the things he had experienced in his lifetime, his most vivid memories still carried her voice and the smell of her perfume.

"Do you regret it?" Damian asked.

"No," Bruce said at once. Damian was sure he had only said so because of him. But Bruce went on to elaborate, "It wasn't all so bad. I was younger back then, a little more careless. A little more blinded. Talia… is remarkable, despite her flaws. And there was a time where, despite everything, I considered making her my wife."

That explanation made it a little easier to understand. Damian never considered his parents as a married couple, though as a child, he dreamed naively of all of them together as a family. A real family. It was hard to believe that his father had almost made that a reality.

But that wasn't who his parents were. Both Bruce and Talia were too bullheaded, too independent. Even if their dispositions had been the same, Damian knew now that it probably wouldn't have worked. They had been too young, too ambitious, when he was conceived. A marriage would have been a nuisance.

And if Damian had to be completely honest with himself, he wouldn't have had it any other way. He wouldn't have grown up to be who he was if his parents hadn't been so driven to make him the best—and while it was unfortunate that their ideals were so different, Damian couldn't imagine living a life that was normal and boring. A life without Batman and Robin.

"Did you want it to work?" Damian asked quietly. "Even when you knew you shouldn't? Even if it would have been wrong?"

At that, Bruce looked at Damian oddly.

"Damian," Bruce said, frowning. Not in the way that he was angry or upset, but in the way that he was concerned. "Is there something you're trying to tell me?"

His father, ever the observant one.

"No," Damian said immediately, though his thoughts scattered to all of his secrets. The secret about his hand, the visions, the thoughts in his head. And the biggest one, one Damian would never confess to Bruce. Would never confess to anyone. The secret that was just another naive dream that visited him in his bed. He breathed in a little. "I'm just curious."

Bruce nodded a little, seeming to try to sort out his answer in his head. Finally he said, "Perhaps I did. But there was too much against us. Too much between us. After awhile, I suppose I just realized it wasn't meant to be."

Damian knew that was the right answer.

He also knew it was the answer he didn't want to hear.

* * *

They finally made a breakthrough in the case. They finally found Anna Brown.

Another young widow, perfectly matching the case of the first victim. And more importantly, they found her address.

It was not quite yet patrol hours, the sun was still setting in the distance and the snow was coming down. But not another moment could be wasted—she could be alive. She could be waiting. And Batman and Robin had to save her before it was too late.

It was a quiet little suburb tucked on the edges of Gotham. It hardly felt like the city at all, but deep beneath it was hiding its big secret.

"Be careful," Bruce reminded them. "If you go in too hastily, you could scare away the perp—or scare him into doing something worse."

Dick picked the lock to the door, quietly slipping inside. A familiar smell greeted Damian, followed by images that felt all too familiar. Dick and Damian quickly surveyed all corners of the house, not finding any trace of the criminal.  
They eventually found the door leading into the basement. They glanced at each other silently. No other words were needed.

They were careful to take their steps but even so, the creaking stairs could only do so much. The basement was freezing and Damian immediately shivered. They stood, surveying the room, silent save for the flickering light. There was a subtle rustle of chains, alerting them both. Dick immediately moved toward the noise. Damian glanced around the room, noticing a difference in the room, wondering briefly where the workbench was kept. He didn't keep the thought for long, too eager to follow Dick. Damian could hear his heart racing as they turned the corner, finding a little crook where a woman in a mess of tangled hair and rags sat.

She looked up, at first fearfully, but then recognition flickered in her eyes. She was shaking—from the cold or from shock, Damian was not sure—but she moved towards them. Her chain rattled around her ankle but that did not stop her from marching forward, her hand outstretched toward him.

"You're here," she said incredulously, a tear rolling down her cheek.

"We're going to help you," Dick said.

"They said you disappeared. That you didn't exist," she continued saying, her eyes glistening. She stepped forward into Dick and Dick wrapped his arms around her.

Damian had seen a lot of hurt people in his lifetime. Perhaps more than he ever should. But when the woman collapsed into Dick's arms, something twisted in his chest a little. He felt proud.

"It's okay," Dick said simply. "Let's go."

But as soon as Dick released her, something went wrong.

The loud clattering of the chains alerted them too late. Dick swooped his arms to grab her but only caught air. She was knocked to the ground, screaming as she was dragged across the floor by the chain attached to her foot.

Suddenly it dawned on Damian too late. The reason why there was no workbench in this room was because this wasn't the only room in the basement. They had been distracted with finding her that they fell for the bait.

Dick and Damian both lurched forward, moving into the next room to help but were forced to stop when she was captured in the arms of her assailant.

A disturbing knife was held in his hands, coated in dried blood. And he was moving quickly, the knife moving towards Anna's neck.

Dick threw the batarang. The man cried out as his hand was struck, the knife dropping from his hand.

But it was too late.

Anna Brown's body fell to the ground, blood pouring from her slit throat. Dick raced forward to help her. Damian moved in toward the man instead, kicking him hard. The man fell over, his nose bleeding. Damian wanted to kick him again and again but he resisted, reaching for the zipties in his belt instead.

When he had him pinned and cuffed, he looked over at Dick. He had one hand over Anna's throat, trying to keep the blood in. The other was stroking her hair. His lips were moving but Damian couldn't catch the words he was saying. He could hear nothing, the room seemingly silent as he watched the woman on the ground.

As hard as he tried, there was no helping her. The blood dripped between Richard's fingers, puddling beneath her. Her body jerked and convulsed, fighting. But the longer she bled, the more her eyes faded. She continued to bleed, her body relaxing, until all the pain, all the fear, finally ceased. She was still.

Dick stopped talking. Seemed to stop breathing. His hand stilled in her hair.

After a long moment, he finally sat back.

"I'll contact GCPD," he finally said.

* * *

They met Barbara in her apartment, as arranged, careful not to awaken or rouse any sleeping neighbors as they slipped in. She immediately scolded them for getting snow into her apartment and made them take off their shoes, and despite how silly it looked to stand in their uniforms but with no boots, they complied.

She kept her apartment warm enough and even offered them coffee, though both politely refused. As planned, they talked about the case.

"He confessed so he's been arrested. But the commissioner is convinced that you two had some part in it," Barbara said, sipping her coffee. Damian knew it was coming, but still, anger bubbled up.

" _Tt_. Is that some sort of joke? They never would have caught that guy if it wasn't for us!" he spat. Barbara shrugged, sitting back in her dining room chair.

"You don't need to tell me. I believe you. But _they_ don't care. They just know a woman is dead and you two didn't stop it. They'll find any reason to pin you for anything," she said. She sighed a little. "I wasn't joking when I told you two to record _everything_."

"So, what, we keep cameras strapped to our masks?" Damian said. He shook his head to himself. "What else? Do they want to give us a babysitter too?"

"Why do you think I joined GCPD? The new commissioner doesn't know what he's doing," she said. As they talked, Dick was silent as a statue beside them. Barbara noticed and nudged him lightly. She said, "It's okay to be pissed. You can just say it. We're all mad."

Dick seemed discomforted by the physical contact. Damian and Barbara locked eyes for a brief moment, the confusion apparent in both of their gazes. Damian shut his mouth and didn't say anything but Barbara, discontent, lowered her mug to the table.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"You knew," he said, unsmiling.

The room fell silent. Barbara's hand wrapped tightly on her mug but she didn't raise her voice to argue. Damian glanced back and forth between them, his puzzlement growing.

"You knew it was him and didn't tell us," Dick finally went on. "You thought I wouldn't figure it out. Maybe I wouldn't have, if it was a few years ago. But did you really think that I wouldn't have put those pieces together now? All those men that were arrested were innocent—but their profiles matched the killer's. You figured out who it was but you couldn't reveal that your tip-off was from costumed vigilantes, so you had to lay out the clues for the cops. So you did."

Barbara's gaze fell to her table but there was nothing to look at. Dick's words made Damian's heart beat faster. If what he was saying was true—

"We could have gotten to him if you just told us. Instead you withheld information," Dick said. "Why?"

"What do you expect from me?" Barbara said quietly. "Without my father, law enforcement has gone to shit. I have to fix it. But I can't do that if I keep covering you all of the time." She ran a hand through her hair, trying to calm herself down. "I'm sorry. But I knew that if I told you and you caught him, the commissioner would never accept it—he'd let him walk and claim that you guys were pinning evidence. If I wanted this killer behind bars, I had to get the evidence compiled before you and let the commissioner think that his team figured it out _without_ Batman's help. And that meant… well, _solving_ it before you." She bit her bottom lip. "So I did. I solved it."

"You kept secrets."

"We all have our secrets," Barbara said, her eyes growing somber. And even though Damian knew better, he almost felt those words were directed at him.

Dick wasn't satisfied with that answer. He looked at Barbara in disbelief. "Is this what your dad would have done?"

" _Stop_!" Barbara yelled, suddenly turning. "Stop making everything personal!"

"How could I not?" Dick fought back. "This is exactly what the commissioner wants: _us_ separated from _them_. And you're falling for it!"

"I'm playing their game to get justice _done_."

"And justice is letting some woman get _murdered_?"

"Don't pin that on me!"

"Right, of course not. It's not your fault. It's _my_ fault for not figuring out the case fast enough. It's _my_ fault for not seeing through your _bullshit_."

"You're the one trying to blame people, not me!" Barbara said. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but Damian knew it was out of frustration. Dick wouldn't look at her, he just kept shaking his head to himself as she talked. "I judged the situation the best I could! If GCPD wasn't already following the same trail, the commissioner _never_ would have accepted that confession! That maniac would still be running around and torturing people!"

Dick stood up to leave. "I don't even know who you are anymore."

" _You_ don't know who _I_ am?" Barbara said in disbelief. She slammed her hands on the table as she stood up. "Who the fuck are _you_?" She gestured with her hand, following Dick from head to toe. "This is _never_ who you wanted to be!"

"You _know_ why I had to do this—"

"Of course I know!" Barbara protested. "And I've never given you grief about it because I understood why you had to do it. And yet you're standing here, accusing _me_ of being the one who's changed, acting like I'm the source of all of your problems. For God's sake, I get it! _We're not sixteen anymore_!"

Dick rubbed his hands over his face, trying to calm himself down. "Come back to the team, Barbara."

"Are you being serious?" Barbara whispered in disbelief, her shoulders slumping.

"You're Batgirl, not Commissioner."

"Wow, you're serious," she said, burying her face in her hands. "I can't believe you're being _fucking serious_ right now."

"This isn't who you're meant to be."

"And you're who you're meant to be?" Barbara said, looking up incredulously. She shook her head to herself. "This is just as easily _your_ choice," Barbara said, shrugging in defeat. She jabbed a finger at the symbol on Dick's chest. " _You_ chose _this_ over _me_!"

When the voices had settled, the anger from the room had dissipated, and there was nothing left but hurt. They had no other choice but to leave. They pulled on their boots and headed back out the window that they had climbed through. As they leapt towards the next rooftop, Damian glanced behind them. Barbara's lone figure was a shadow in the window.

The trek back home was mostly silent. This time, Damian followed Dick's lead.

"Careful," Dick said as they landed on a different rooftop. The rooftop wasn't salted, a thin layer of ice covering the surface. But the ice was brittle, crunching under Damian's boots.

"It's fine," he said simply as he walked across.

"You say that—but wait until you go sliding off the roof," Dick said.

The words brought back _that_ memory. Lately, the memory brought mixed feelings. Bittersweet feelings. Damian stared down at the ice at his feet, the ice cracking under pressure with every step. Damian felt his chest twist a little. He understood his feelings, he could do that now, but he still felt so lost. And when he thought about the lonely figure in the window, part of him hoped that he would never understand.

"Well, that is, go sliding off _again_."

Damian looked up. Dick was looking back with a small smile.

"You remember that?" Damian stopped.

"Of course I do. Bruce chewed you out for like, fifteen minutes," Dick said, smiling like he wanted to laugh. But he was resisting. "He only stopped because, for once, you weren't talking back. He actually thought you might have hit your head on the fire escape and got a concussion. He started blaming _me_."

"I could have or maybe even worse," Damian said. "But you caught me."

"Yeah," Dick said. "But you would have been _just fine saving yourself_. That was Bruce's argument, anyways. Said the grappling hook would have saved you better."

"If it hooked right," Damian said. "If I had reacted in time."

"Yeah, so don't be reckless, otherwise I'll have to catch you again," Dick said with a small smirk. Damian looked away, heat returning to his face. Sometimes that subtle, cocky smile was all it took—and Dick could do it so effortlessly, and so many others had fallen into his bed for it. Damian's blush was quickly turning to one of embarrassment—he felt so weak. Dick continued, not noticing, "And you're not little anymore so we'll probably both go crashing to the ground."

Damian wondered if that would be so bad.

"Maybe you just need to be stronger," Damian quipped. Dick smiled at that but his face quickly fell.

"Right," he said stiffly. He walked past Damian without glancing at him.

Damian glanced after him curiously, wondering what he had said wrong.

"I figured you, of all people, would know when to take a joke," Damian said, trailing after him. They reached the edge of the rooftop, where Dick took a look down below to check any activity. There was nothing there but Dick kept staring.

"Was I wrong to hesitate?" Dick said suddenly. Damian looked at him, confused. Dick elaborated, "I knew I had to chase him down to catch him. But I was worried."

There was only one thing Damian could think of. "Is this about that day with my hand?"

Dick didn't say anything. Realization came to Damian a moment too late.

"You're talking about the woman. You can't blame yourself for what happened to her."

The rooftop winds picked up, the cold gusts picking up their capes. They let them blow for awhile, Dick finally grimacing and confessing, "It wasn't Barbara's fault."

"It wasn't," Damian agreed, and he silently hoped that Dick wouldn't take that as betrayal. Regardless of what Damian believed, he would always be by Dick's side. But deep down, Damian knew that Barbara was doing what she thought was best, and she was probably right. Dick had to have known that too. "It wasn't your fault either."

"I've been working that case for so long. I spent nights talking things over, reading file after file. I couldn't sleep because every minute I wasted was another minute that someone was being tortured or slowly killed. And then she was there, right there in my arms, and if I just hadn't let go—if I had just caught him then and there—if I had thrown the batarang in time—"

"What did you say to her?" Damian asked, cutting him off.

"What?" Dick said, caught off-guard.

"When she was dying, you were whispering to her. What did you say?"

"It was just nonsense," Dick said at once. But his face was lost in thought, and whether he meant to or not, he kept talking. "I just told her everything was going to be okay… and I made sure to tell her she was free… I thought she might have wanted to hear that… Kori once told me that someone had said that to her, so I thought…"

He trailed off, falling into silence.

"You mean Koriand'r," Damian said. And he wondered, wondered why it had never worked out. Wondered why none of Dick's relationships ever seemed to work out.

"Yeah. She told me about her time as a slave to the Capitol. I know it's not exactly the same—"

"I'm sure it eased her," Damian said. He said it easily but really, he had no idea. He wasn't sure what he would have said if it had been him talking to her. Words of comfort did not come easily to him. There was a reason why he leapt towards the criminal and Dick had leapt towards the victim.

"I'll never know," Dick said, forcing a shrug.

The rooftop winds seemed to still in response.


	4. Third Winter

**A/N** : Warnings that apply to this chapter include violence and mild gore. There is also a moment of brief racial/national prejudice.

* * *

Third Winter

* * *

They're driving, tires screeching, motors roaring, down the street. They're moving faster and faster, darting around a corner, and Damian can't help but think of how easy this should be.

He could have laid a trap, spikes or chains in the roads, and this would be over. The problem with a trap, though, is that it'd send the biker gang flying into their own deaths.

But it was three in the morning and the night had been long with freezing rain, and right at that moment, Damian couldn't help but think that it was tempting.

Everyone was in a gang these days. It sickened Damian to his stomach. A bunch of weaklings, wanting to act tough by piling up in numbers, many of them picking on those who couldn't fight back, creating chaos. It was the exact opposite of the discipline and order that Damian and worked so hard to achieve in himself that it filled him with resentment.

But he was racing after them, the bike feeling unsteady under the cruel winds and downpour, the chase in his veins and heart, and he'd be lying to himself if he didn't find the danger thrilling.

"Careful," a voice said in his helmet.

"I know what I'm doing," Damian spat back into the commlink. He didn't have patience for this, his stress was at an all-time high trying to keep control of the motorcycle while keeping an eye on the perps he was chasing. And this rain kept pouring and pouring, rolling over his visor, biting cold through his clothes as it came down in variations of water and shards of ice.

"These roads are dangerous in this weather. _Our_ equipment might be able to handle it, but if one of their bikes skids—"

"I'm coming your way," Damian said, his voice rising with alertness when he saw the gang make their predicted turn. "Be ready."

"Be careful, when this smoke goes off, they might panic—they might slide—"

" _Just do it already_ ," Damian said, gritting his teeth. He held tight as he turned the corner, chasing down the familiar bikes, but he was careful to keep his distance—particularly when the headlights of a vehicle turned on in the distance, their brightness nearly blinding.

Damian immediately punched the button on the side of his helmet, the lenses on his visor changing. The Batmobile released the smoke but Damian's visor could see through it all, his targets boxed up on a display in the helmet.

It had the desired effect. Many of the bikes applied their brakes in alarm. Damian tracked their speed, got close to the one that dropped the lowest, and punctured the tire with a batarang. He immediately swerved out of the way as the tires burst, causing the biker to wipe out.

One biker had to slam the brakes to avoid crashing into the Batmobile. As it came to a complete stop, Damian tossed a net.

"Good, we got them," Dick said. Static cut through his speech on the communicator, crackling his voice.

"We're still missing one," Damian said. The tracker on his helmet was still following the figure, who had made it through the smoke. Damian pursued, applying the gas.

"What are you _doing_?" Dick said, alarmed, as Damian sped past the Batmobile.

"Catching him."

"No, we got who we could. Do _not_ pursue."

"We can catch him around the next corner."

"Robin, do _not_ —goddamnit!"

Damian heard the distant sound of tires screeching, and despite himself, he couldn't help but smirk. He was gaining speed, the speedometer a steady rise. The raindrops thudded against him, faster and faster, the winds rippling his hood behind him.

The distance between him and the biker was closing. In the corner of his visor, there was a map with a blinking dot, revealing the Batmobile's location. They were closing in.

Damian maneuvered the bike to avoid a potential crash when the biker would inevitably be forced to brake. They were getting closer, closer.

Light shone through the corner of Damian's eyes, blinding him even through the tinted lenses. A car's horn went off, loud and long. He instinctively pulled back the handle, the whole world shaking before him as he spun out.

First he heard his tires squeal, followed by the shattering crack as his helmet hit the ground. The pain hits him too hard for him to cry out as his bike lands on his arm, but his trained instinct reminds him of danger, and if he doesn't move while the bike spins out—

This time Damian can't bite back the scream as he pulls back his arm, broken. He backs out of the way of the spinning wheels. He makes a gap between him and the bike but the pain overtakes him. He falls on his back, clenching his arm, his mind unable to make the reasonable decision to make sure that he's at a safe distance.

He is far enough though. A figure sweeps past him, wrangling the vehicle. Damian doesn't watch, his eyes are focused upwards, the rain pelting his helmet. The ground is cold and wet and finally, he makes the decision to sit up, groaning at the movement.

His head is throbbing from the impact but the helmet did its job. He pulls it back, tossing it aside. The visor has cracked. Damian's world is spinning. He slowly staggers to his feet, manages to make it out of the street, but everything is tilting back and forth and finally nausea overcomes him.

He falls to his knees, the acid bubbling up his throat. He can hear footsteps approaching from behind but he's already hurling.

Damian is vaguely aware of Dick standing there. He doesn't focus on it. He just breathed in and out, trying to calm himself. The steady fall of rain creates a low buzz of noise that's oddly calming. His gaze falls downward, his breaths heavy, as he stared at the red, mangled mess that was his arm.

He carefully turned over, avoiding his own vomit, and presses his back against the brick wall behind him. He's suddenly aware that his hair is drenched and he pulls up his hood.

Dick knelt before him, activating the flashlight attached to his bracer. Damian flinched as the beam directly hit his eyes. He wanted to raise his arm to shield himself from the light but his dominant arm was the one that was broken.

"Forget it," Damian said immediately, almost cursing. "I don't even think I can _get_ concussions."

"Right," Dick said, expression tight, and he stood back up and turned off the light.

"Did you get him?" Damian asked.

"Are you seriously asking that?" Dick said, unhappy.

"I didn't see the truck," Damian said, letting his head fall back against the building. "Stupid mistake. I could have turned quicker. We could have got him."

"Yeah. Right," Dick said, snorting a little. "Knowing you, you probably would have sped up."

Damian couldn't argue with that. He wasn't wrong.

He glanced down at the broken limb. With his good hand, he pushed his arm into place, hissing between his teeth as the pain stung through him.

"Will it heal?" Dick asked.

"It should," Damian said. "It can't be worse than that time with my leg."

It had been in a warehouse last autumn, just a few months back. A chain had caught around Damian's ankle, and the enemy had been clever enough to flip the switch that whipped the chain back. Damian had to break his own leg to wrench it out in time, or else he would have been crushed by some machinery.

Dick seemed hardly comforted by Damian's words.

"You're becoming reckless," he said, his tone more scolding than chiding.

"Becoming?" Damian said mockingly. Dick responded with a deep frown, clearly unamused. Then again, nothing amused him these days.

Damian didn't push the issue, because in the end, he couldn't deny it. Since he discovered his abilities, he admittedly had been more… careless. He felt like nothing was holding him back—he could take the bigger leaps, take the punches, charge through bullet barrages. He wasn't invincible, of course—at least, he didn't think so. He still felt pain and the healing process was just as painful.

Damian looked down at his arm, trying to focus on breathing. Breathing helped him ignore the pain. The stings from his cuts, the cracking from his bones reassembling. Damian wasn't sure how far the healing could go but the broken bone from the few months prior had healed just fine.

The first time, it had been so unbearable that he thought he wouldn't be able to take it. He thought he wouldn't be able to keep his secret any longer, that he would have to go to Bruce and Alfred and tell them what happened. But he gritted his teeth and waited for it, watched it heal, until it finally was as good as it was before.

It was a mesmerizing, though achingly long, process to watch it heal. Layer upon layer of his muscle and tissue stitching itself back together. Watching a cut heal was almost beautiful, like all of these little pieces suddenly weaving together to recreate him. The pain of a cut, however, was minimal in comparison to this. The deeper the wound, the more aggressive it healed, and the way the bones desperately snapped together left his arm shaking.

Damian held his arm together, hoping it'd help the process. He turned his arm away from the droplets of the freezing rain. He sat there and thought of how miserable this all was—sitting on the cold, wet floor as his arm twisted itself back into place.

Damian heard the sound of fabric sweeping in the air. Damian's hood was too thin to stop the seeping moisture from the cold rain, but suddenly, he could no longer feel the impact of raindrops hitting him. He looked over and saw the pointed edges of Dick's cape. It was shielding him.

"Thanks," he said quietly. As much as he had matured over the years, he still wasn't used to voicing his gratitude. And they waited.

With Dick's cape doing its best to keep him dry, Damian used his good hand to turn his injured arm back over so he could see the wound. He grimaced through the whole process. He could see the pieces of bone puzzling themselves back together, swimming through the gore to meet. There was a particularly loud crack and Damian grunted between his teeth. Blood oozed down his arm, dripping onto the ground, washing away in the rain.

It was a bad wound so it was expected to be difficult to heal, but this was just awful. Several minutes passed, each crack becoming more and more difficult to take, and Damian found it harder to concentrate on his breathing. His toes curled inside his boots, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching his teeth, and the rain just seemed to grow louder and louder.

Damian gave a short cry as one of the bones finally snapped into place.

"It's taking too long. Longer than usual," Dick, who had been watching over his shoulder the entire time, said. Damian looked up at him—it was an awkward angle but he managed to catch his face. Dick was grimacing, looking almost nauseous. "We have to go back. We'll have Penny-One look at you."

"It'll heal," Damian insisted, continuing to hold his mangled arm. "It's done it before."

Dick knew that but it didn't make him any happier about it. It didn't make him happy anytime they did this—when they sat and waited for Damian's injuries to heal before they returned home just so Bruce would never know. And even though Damian could see the frustration in his face, Dick never once looked away.

Finally, the cut restitched itself, weaving together the muscle and tissue and skin.

"It's done," Damian breathed, finally releasing the exhale he had been holding in.

His skin was still dried with blood but the rain would be able to wash it away. He stood up, still feeling a little dizzy and on-edge but otherwise okay. The first few steps were the hardest, he stumbled a little to get his balance, to clear his head of the hurt. Afterwards, he was fine.

"Wait."

A hand on his shoulder pulled him back from walking any further. Damian looked over to see Dick standing there, unsmiling.

"I can't keep doing this," he said.

Damian wasn't surprised. This conversation was a long time coming.

"Father wouldn't blame you for holding secrets—"

"That's not the problem," Dick said, cutting him off. His tone was short. "It's not natural."

"It hasn't killed me."

"It's _hurting_ you."

"It's fine now."

"Stop being so stubborn!" Dick suddenly said, angry. Damian stopped talking. Usually when Dick was upset, it was serious. It wasn't always that way—Dick used to be vocal anytime something made him furious, quick to yell but also quick to forgive. But lately, he just let it brew. Dick must have realized his tone because he paused, trying to compose himself. "This has gone on long enough. It's time you get some help."

Damian glared at him. "Stop hovering."

"What do you hope to accomplish by ignoring this? You know this isn't right."

Damian didn't answer.

"This isn't how bodies work and now you're just becoming reckless. You're unafraid to throw yourself in the middle of danger."

"Is that such a problem?" Damian fought back.

Dick stopped, looking at him incredulously. "Of course it's a problem. You could _die_."

"I stopped those criminals and I'm walking away without a scratch."

"Is that what this is about? _Efficiency_?" Dick said, his voice rising. Damian opened his mouth to argue but Dick talked over him. "What, are you just going to throw yourself into an explosion if it means catching the bad guy?"

"Why not?"

"You're seriously confused why I'm asking you _not_ to do that? You think I _want_ to see you open yourself up over and over again on every mission? To see you get cut and broken up just so you can do it all over the next day? What should I do, wait for your head to get cut off and put it back to your body so you can _restitch yourself_?"

Damian shrunk in place, both at the steadily rising anger coming from Richard and the unexpected imagery placed in his head. Still, he couldn't let his doubt show. He gave Dick a challenging look and said, "Don't you do the same thing?"

"You're _punishing_ yourself."

"I guess that makes us both masochists."

"You're fucking impossible," Dick said with a growl, turning away.

"At least I have the ability to actually heal myself," Damian said. And at that, Dick paused.

"Is this about what happened in April?" he asked.

"Don't be ridiculous," Damian said at once, with a scoff. Regardless, Dick's words sprung forth memories of the past year. The lucky bullet. The one that cut through all of Dick's defenses—past his evasion, his armor, his flesh and muscle. The one that not only shot him but sent him stumbling over an edge, onto the ground. It had rained that day too, though the air had not been quite as cold. Rain and blood and mud had clung to his uniform, dripping from his body onto Damian's as he dragged him back to the manor.

Dick looked away. Reluctantly, he said, "I get it. It was a difficult time—"

" _Enough_ already," Damian said, scowling. It had been a difficult time. Damian wasn't sure what was going to happen. The entire time he dragged him to the vehicle, Dick had kept bleeding, and Damian wasn't sure if he was making it worse. He got him to the manor and there had been the operation and then the wait. The long grueling wait. And while Damian's wounds had healed before they ever even got to the operating room, Dick slept for days, and the entire time Damian couldn't help but think how _unfair_ that was.

"You don't need to protect me."

"I could say the same."

"No," Dick said. "You _can't_. It's my responsibility to look over you." Dick shook his head to himself, giving up. "Just… don't be stupid, okay? Play it safe. Assume that you won't heal because, one day, maybe you won't."

"Fine," Damian said stiffly. He could agree to that much, however reluctantly.

"Let's get back to the Cave before we both freeze," Dick said. As if on cue, a particularly cold wind passed by. Damian shivered in his soaked clothing.

When they finally crawled back into the Cave, they were both wet and freezing. The Cave wasn't much of a break. While at least now they had something to shelter them, the Cave was hardly warm and just barely dry.

Pennyworth was the first to greet them, carrying two sets of dry clothing. Damian sighed in relief, eager to get out of his clothes and lay down for the night.

Dick had just removed his cowl when Bruce came down the steps.

"I just picked up on one of GCPD's radio signals," he said. "There's been a break-in—a robbery situation."

Dick, who was in the process of removing his bracer, stopped in place. "Where?"

"Old Gotham. The bank on 32nd and Water Street."

"That's not far," Dick said, tugging the cowl back on.

"Wait," Damian said when Dick started heading towards the vehicles. Dick looked back at Damian, who already had his hood and vest removed.

"How many gunmen?" Dick asked Bruce.

"One confirmed."

"Easy-peezy. I'll be right back," he said, continuing towards the vehicles.

Damian frowned, annoyed that he was being ignored and left behind. He moved to follow.

"Master Damian," Alfred spoke up. "You're not even wearing your gear."

Damian's irritation grew. He didn't need his armor—but of course, no one knew that except him and Richard.

"It's okay, Damian," Dick said, grabbing one of the motorcycles. He readjusted his loosened bracer. "I can handle this. Get some sleep."

"Be careful on the roads," Bruce said. "Old Gotham is slow to clean up their streets. They'll be slippery and there's only so much traction on those wheels."

"I know," Dick said quietly, and he started up the motorcycle. "I'll be right back."

"You're seriously leaving me here," Damian said, deadpanned.

"School night," Dick said, flashing a smirk. It felt forced.

Damian watched him take off, his form growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the night. When the lights from the motorcycle finally disappeared, Damian let his expression sour.

"He'll be fine," Bruce said, noticing the look. "He's right. You should get some sleep. I'll shut everything down."

* * *

He was floating. Heat was searing at his flesh. His broken arm. His broken leg.

The puncture at his core.

The dozens of interweaving fibers of his being layered themselves, over and over and over, restitching himself. Rebuilding himself. The crackling of his bones. The fusing of his tissue. In his mind he saw dozens of images. A dark shadow loomed over him, though Damian could not be sure of who or what it was. A bat. A demon. Something darker.

 _I'll make you a deal_.

And Damian was breathless. Perhaps literally. Perhaps figuratively. And he could not be sure if he was gazing into the dark, blood red eyes of God or the Devil. But the being's hand reached down, striking him through his core, and Damian screamed. Screamed as acidic waters bubbled around him. His vision red and green and black and yellow.

And with that scream he was given life, like a newborn cut from the umbilical cord. _No, that's not right_. Air rushing through his lungs, not freezing but warm. Hotter than smoke.

Red and green and black and yellow flashing before him, rising and rising, floating higher and higher. Breaking through the surface, air again, but this time fresh. He remembered crawling, farther and farther, shaking.

 _The blood of the demon_.

He was reborn. He was whole. And yet he was nothing at all. He was not himself. He was surrounded by demons. His blood was alive, rushing through him, and madness overtook his mind. His common senses slipped away as he crawled over the ledge. Acid rolled over his body in droplets, gravel cut into his fingernails and scraped his knees, but he felt none of it.

He could only focus on the blood singing in his veins. Rejuvenating him with its song. Filling him with energy and his steady pulsing. Shadows surrounded him but he was unafraid. He was thrilled. He had been waiting for this moment, waiting for it all his life, and he rushed towards the shadow, ready to tear it apart. Tear away at its flesh, its head, and all the while he laughed and sang and—

Damian sat up in his bed, gasping as if he was short of breath.

He immediately reached for his lamp, nearly knocking it over, but the light came on nonetheless. It filled his dark room with warmth and light. Damian dotted the sweat off his brow and breathed steadily, trying to relax his quickly beating pulse. Another nightmare. There was always a nightmare. Sometimes he didn't have to be asleep for them, sometimes they would visit him during the day, and his body would break out in the same cold sweat as it did now followed by a deep dull pain in his head.

But there was something different about this dream. This time, the shadows had bodies. And more and more, Damian began to think these dreams were less of dreams and images and more of memories.

Damian reached down to his bare stomach, lightly tracing the one scar that never seemed to heal. The scar he received when he was not immune to anything.

The scar that had marked his death.

When Damian had died, the circumstances surrounding his resurrection had been blurry. For the first few years of his new life, things had seemed fine, but between his strange abilities and his strange visions, Damian was beginning to suspect that whatever was wrong with him had to do with what happened that fateful day.

One thing was certain: something was wrong with him.

Damian couldn't quite place his finger on it but he had a sneaking suspicion.

The Lazarus Pit.

He swore to himself that he would never talk to _her_ again. As much as it pained him, his mother was arguably his greatest enemy. But he had to know the truth.

But his greatest concern was not just what was happening to his body. His concern ran far deeper than that, and it had to do with the moments after. The moments after he had crawled out of the pit, and there was music playing in his ears, and the adrenaline was rushing through his body, and the madness of the Pit had overtaken him.

The faceless bodies he had seen.

Damian knew the Pit well. Knew the madness that overtook its users. He was lucky to have survived, true, but had his sanity been spared in the process? More than wanting to know what was happening to him currently, he had to know of the past.

He had to know if someone else died that night.

He tossed the blankets aside, carefully stepping outside of his bedroom and hurrying down the hall. He stopped before a door, knocking. He made sure not to be too loud, attempting to avoid disturbing anyone else. He wanted to talk to Richard and Richard alone. Dick swung open the door, looking surprised when he saw who it was.

"Damian. It's five in the morning. What do you want?"

"It's not as if you were sleeping," Damian said swiftly. Damian glanced back in the hall to make sure no one else was around before shuffling himself in.

Richard's room was hardly a room anymore. Every piece of furniture was stacked in papers—even the bed could not be spared. The walls were decorated with post-its and notes from cases. Something peculiar caught Damian's eye. He snatched a photo off the wall.

"No wonder you don't sleep. How could you with _Bane_ hanging over your bed?"

Dick's face scrunched up in annoyance and he snatched back the photo. "Stop tearing shit off my walls. I put them there for a reason."

Dick tacked it back in place, right next to some related police reports and some venom studies. Damian ignored him and wandered around the room. He rarely ever went in Richard's room. It was oddly… interesting. Damian's curiosity was beginning to stir.

Any semblance of personality had slipped away. The room was the room of a detective and nothing more. Damian flipped through the pages of newspapers and case files, slowly making his way around the room until he reached the desk. Dick followed him the entire time, carefully eyeing him. Something appeared in the corner Damian's eye.

It was hard to see it, tacked underneath piles and piles of papers. But the glossy polaroid caught Damian's attention. He gently peeled away the top layers to reveal the image underneath.

There were sporadic pictures of Richard throughout the house, but they were either of him as a child or an adult. It was strange seeing him, as it appeared, around Damian's age. He was a lot more gawkish back then, and something in his eyes felt a little more genuine, a little more vulnerable. Next to him was Barbara, laughing—her face the most joyful Damian had ever seen it in the years he had known her. They were both dressed up—one of Father's galas, maybe? No, probably a school dance.

"You done?"

Damian looked back at Dick, whose arms were crossed. Dick reached over and plucked the photo from the wall, tossing it in the nearest wastebin. Damian watched it go, wondering what secret he had soiled.

"What do you want?" Dick said, sighing.

"I want access to the bayside hideout."

"Why?" Dick asked slowly, raising an eyebrow.

The bayside hideout had access to all of their planes and flyers. Only Bruce, Dick and Alfred had access to it—the equipment was far too expensive to hand to just anybody. It was also just about all it carried, with the exception of some advanced weaponry—thus, Dick's suspicions.

And he had every right to be suspicious.

Damian took a deep breath.

"I need to meet with my mother."

"Uh. No. Hell no."

Damian bristled. He knew this was going to happen. He spoke the words he had rehearsed in his head a thousand times before knocking on that door, "The Lazarus Pit might be the answer to my problems. My strange healing abilities and visions might all link back to what happened that day. I need to talk to her."

"That is a terrible idea and you know it," Dick said sternly. "The whole reason you were dead in the first place is because Talia planned it that way."

"She won't hurt me without listening to me first. She wants me on her side."

"Right, because that makes everything so much safer," Dick said sarcastically, laughing a little to himself. "How do you think it's going to look when you finally arrive on her doorstep _without_ the intentions of rejoining? She'll be insulted."

"I need answers."

"Then talk to Bruce. Tell him what's going on."

"He wouldn't understand."

"I thought you liked your stupid healing abilities?"

"I don't want to lose it. I just want to know the truth behind all of this." It was true. It was the visions more than anything that scared Damian. His unexplainable abilities came second.

"Damian, if this is the resort you're willing to take, then maybe some things are better off not knowing," Dick said, sighing. Damian glowered, wanting to spare himself of Richard's life lessons, but he kept his mouth shut and endured. "Look, I don't know what you _think_ you need to know, but drop it. Whatever answers you need that Bruce can't give you, that you feel that you need to talk to _Talia_ about—probably have little to do with your healing abilities and more to do with yourself."

"I hear a lot of assumptions in there."

"Am I wrong?" Dick said, shrugging flippantly. "Point is, you know who you are. You don't need Talia to tell you yes or otherwise."

Damian flared in annoyance. "You're one to talk."

Dick was stumped. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You go crawling to Father all of the time for his approval," Damian said, crossing his arms. "At least in the beginning, you followed your own path, but now you just do everything _he_ does."

There was a flicker in Dick's gaze, his eyes turning oddly cold. He was getting irritated. But Damian knew he was right, so he pressed on.

"You eat the same way he ate, you train the same way he trained. You even picked up his bad habits. When's the last time you even _slept_?" It wasn't just that. Dick had picked up other bad habits and was even beginning to change personality and appearance-wise. He didn't joke around as much as he used to—when he was in the cowl, he barely spoke at all, and his training regimen had bulked him up. In the past few years, Dick's insomnia rollercoastered in a way that was familiar to Bruce's, leaving him with dark circles underneath his eyes. Worst of all, he had become more distant, and rarely focused on anything outside of his detective work. "And it's not just that, you consult him about every case. I'm surprised you even breathe without his permission."

"I don't understand what it is about you always wanting to pick a fight, but _don't_ ," Dick said in a warning voice. "You forgot that I'm the only one keeping your stupid talk _hush-hush_. I've had every reason to go running to Bruce, especially since your talk keeps getting bigger and crazier. You think I tell him everything? Fine, keep pushing my buttons and maybe we'll test that theory."

This talk was going nowhere. Frustrated, Damian turned for the door. "I'll find a different way."

But before he could leave, Dick stopped him. Damian glanced down at the hand on his shoulder, the physical contact filling him with mixed feelings. He glanced up at Dick, who carried a stern expression.

"There's something you're not telling me."

It shouldn't have been surprising. Richard always had a way of figuring him out, even in ways his father—the great detective—couldn't. It was tempting. Damian wanted to confess everything. It had been three damn years and he didn't want to lie anymore. Didn't want to risk disappointing anyone. Wanted some confirmation, any confirmation, that he was _okay_.

And he wanted Richard, more than anyone, to be that confirmation.

Dick kept looking at him. Looking at him with this expectant look. These dark blue eyes that seemed to see right through him, turning Damian transparent and vulnerable all at once, and those eyes scared him.

It was tempting.

Damian pulled away from the contact, inwardly reminding himself of his mission. He would have all of his answers, in time, and he would have to do it without Dick's help.

"You know what I know," he said, and it wasn't necessarily false. He exited the room.

* * *

He had to plan it all meticulously.

Getting to his mother's wouldn't be a problem. He may not have had permission to use his father's aircrafts, but he knew how to fly a plane well enough. Once across the ocean, he'd have to find a way to be taken to the mountain—it'd be easy enough, all he'd have to do is bribe the right people with the right amount of money. From there, he'd take the trail to the hideout, a trail that he was certain he'd be able to remember once he started traversing it, and he would bring some supplies as back-up.

However, in order to do any of this, he needed a plane. And in order to do that, he'd have to get into the bayside hideout.

Damian's plans usually consisted of destroying everything until nothing stood in his way but there would be no _destroying_ his way into the bayside hideout—not unless he could get his hands on some explosive that could blow their way into twenty-four inch wide steel doors. Even then, it would set off all the alarms, and likely shut down the machinery.

His best bet, his safest bet, was to try and figure out the passcode and security measures to get in. He couldn't simply ask his father, Pennyworth, or Dick, without them suspecting what he was up to—not to mention Richard had already rejected him.

After Damian's classes were over, instead of immediately returning home, he took a detour.

Red Robin's safehouse was tucked _just_ under the surface of Gotham. It was especially difficult getting through the fake sewer grate—the cold had made it slippery and difficult to handle. When he slipped down in the underground tunnel, the rest was easy. He entered in the passcode, the same digits used for the clock in the Manor, and allowed his eye to be scanned for identity-check. The doors opened and he stepped inside.

It was hard to believe this little secretive nook of Gotham existed, though the distant sounds of cars passing occasionally echoed down below—a reminder that there was still an outside world. The hideout was hardly spacious and yet, the amount of space it had managed to carve out was impressive every time. Shelves of mechanical parts hugged the walls and every surface seemed to carry some strange looking weapon or gadget. Upon Damian's entrance, a computer's voice announced the arrival of a guest.

Tim didn't bother to look up from his place at a workbench. He called out, "I told you I'd call you when it was finished. And if you're still wanting me to run those coordinates, I think you'd be better off—"

Tim stopped himself short when he finally looked back. He removed the safety goggles, looking at Damian oddly.

"You're not Batman."

"Obviously," Damian said.

"How was I supposed to know? It's not as if you visit often," Tim said, tugging the goggles back on. He continued his work, putting together the pieces of something that looked far too technical for Damian to understand. But Damian was curious about Tim's expectations.

"Were you expecting him?"

"He skulks around here every so often, more frequently as of late. He's been asking me for some help on a case."

This was the first Damian had ever heard of it. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen Tim on a case or patrol, usually Red Robin was too busy with his work with the Titans. Damian tried to imagine Dick in the very same hideout, talking to Tim about cases that no one else seemed to know about, but the idea made him feel so betrayed that he was starting to grow irritated. Or maybe jealous.

"What case?"

At that, Tim glanced back at Damian suspiciously. "Why don't you ask him?"

Next to Bruce, Tim was probably the most cautious one of the family. Damian knew that going in, but still, he couldn't help but feel impatient. "Nevermind. I came here because I need access to the bayside hideout."

"Why do you think I have access to it?" Tim asked. "If I need to fly somewhere, I have my means at the Titans hideout."

"You helped build it. You coded the security system."

Tim finally tore away from his work. He pulled off his goggles and gloves, tossing them on the bench, and turned to face Damian. Even after all these years, Damian still found it odd to finally be the one looking _down_ at Tim. But even so, Damian's taller stature did nothing to make him feel superior, especially when Tim eyed him down with a calculating gaze—like he was looking straight through him.

"What are you up to?" he said.

Damian used the excuse he had practiced in his head, "I need it in case of emergencies."

"I'm sure if there was an emergency, one of us would be able to get access," Tim said simply.

"But what if Father, Alfred or Richard _can't_ give access?"

"The chances of all three of them being incapacitated at the same time seems highly unlikely," Tim said. "But I suppose, if that were the case, you're right. I could break into it fairly easily since I designed it. But if you're asking me to give that information to you, you can forget about it. You wouldn't have come to me unless you wanted something."

If Damian told Tim the truth, he would never agree to help. Damian knew he would have to approach this conversation differently. "I had a feeling you'd say that. I wanted to make a deal."

At that, Tim snorted, amused. "I don't care if every part on Bruce's body was turned backwards—I _still_ would not risk his wrath. There's no deal that could make me change my mind."

Damian ignored him. He reached into belt, pulling out a flashdrive, and tossed it onto Tim's desk. Tim picked it up, looking at it oddly, before looking back at Damian.

"Richard's been working with the Justice League. I managed to get access to the computer when no one was looking and found some interesting research."

"If its Justice League information, then I definitely want no part of it. And you shouldn't either," Tim said sternly.

"It's regarding that supervillain group that the Titans have been tracking," Damian said. At that, Tim paused.

"No, that can't be right. Why would they keep information from us?"

"Why else? The Justice League doesn't trust anyone that isn't in their cool kids' club." Damian nodded towards the flashdrive. "Look at it."

Tim looked at Damian hesitantly before plugging the flashdrive into his computer. Several files came up. Tim shook his head in wonder.

"This is everything," he said, murmuring. At that, Damian snorted a little. He reached into his belt for another flash drive, tossing it in the air and catching it. He held it up and looked at Tim, and they gazed at each other in understanding. "Bruce would kill me. Dick could get in trouble."

"Perhaps," Damian said. He closed his hand around the flashdrive and Tim stared at the concealed flashdrive, looking torn.

Tim rubbed his chin, thinking.

"Give me a minute," Tim said, and he got up and moved towards the back room. Damian could hear him shuffling through drawers. While Tim was moving around, Damian wandered closer to Tim's computer. He had left a few windows open. Damian glanced at it, reading a certain case file.

"You need to learn when to stop snooping," Tim said, returning. He stepped in between Damian and the computer for emphasis. He handed Damian a small box. Damian peeked inside, finding a strange gadget.

"What is this?"

"Hook this up and it will recode the door to get you into the safehouse. It won't give you complete access to everything, such as the weaponry, but it can get you through the main doors," Tim said. Damian nodded. That was all he needed. Tim sighed heavily and said, murmuring, "Whatever you're planning, don't make me regret this."

* * *

Damian started packing for his voyage. When he moved to grab some clothes, his cat had slipped into the drawer, sitting right on top of his shirts.

"Later, Alfred," Damian said as he shooed him to the side. Alfred only ever approached him when he needed something but this time, Alfred simply stared at him.

Damian stopped packing for a moment to look down at the cat, whose eyes always seemed to gleam mysteriously whenever they locked gazes. Damian sighed.

"If you have something to say, out with it," he said. Alfred said nothing. Damian rolled his eyes to himself—now he was talking to cats. He really was crazy. "You must want _something_."

He reached under Alfred's chin, the only place where the cat sometimes allowed himself to be petted, but Alfred immediately bristled his fur and pounced off the dresser. He took off, leaving the room and running out into the hall, probably off to wreak havoc elsewhere. Damian rubbed his eyes tiredly. He missed Titus, who could be petted at any time any place, but he was buried last summer—in the Wayne cemetery no less, at Damian's insistence.

When the luggage was finally zipped, Damian took a step back. It was at that moment that a realization fell upon him.

This could be his last time in this manor.

Nothing was for certain. While he liked to believe that things would go his way, death was still a possibility. He'd have to fly himself out there, land safely, climb the mountains to the peak, and hope that neither his mother nor her assassins would kill him along the way.

He leaned against his dresser, surveying his room.

He had really grown attached to this place.

He made his way to his desk, shuffling through the drawers to find a pen and paper. Perhaps he should leave a note. It ran the risk of his plans being discovered, even thwarted, but it felt wrong to leave without saying goodbye.

 _Father, I've gone to see my mother in hope of answers. If you find this, please do not follow me. I hope to return to you soon, but if I do not, it is possible that I am dead. I apologize for all of my mistakes and the secrets I have kept_ —

"No," Damian said, grumbling. He clenched the pen tightly as he crossed out the words. Why was it when he was angry, he could always find the right thing to say, but when it came to apologizing, his words ran dry?

Damian sat for a moment, tapping his chin, and tried a different approach.

 _Pennyworth, if you find this I will be far away. Please be assured that I will return soon, but if I do not, please accept my gratitude. Your influence and advice over the years has helped tremendously and I_ —

" _Tt_." He crossed everything off, the lines dark as he pressed his pen even harder.

He stared at the paper for awhile, his gaze beginning to soften, the slow thump in his chest seeming to grow louder. Relaxing the grip on his pen, he began to write.

 _Richard_ —

Damian tossed the pen aside, ripping the paper from the pad and crumpling it. He disposed of the evidence by tossing it in the wastebasket. He got up, ignoring the heat on his face, and grabbed his bags.

* * *

He was dumped off unceremoniously. The base of the mountain was the best he could bribe the driver to take him. He was still left with the trail and then the peak to climb, no doubt territory that the assassins had made their own. The altitude left him with severe head pressure and deep snow to climb through. It mattered little—desert, jungle or tundra, he had come too far to stop.

The winds whistled harshly, carrying with it the smells of true wilderness, untainted by man. As Damian followed the trail, he thought with anxiousness of the journey to come. He wondered what his mother looked like or what she would say—or if he would even make it that far.

The snow was growing deeper, but it was matted and he was able to walk over it fairly easily. The winds swept off the snow and his direction began to blur. He was certain he was getting close, that much he knew, but he wasn't sure where to head next.

It seemed he didn't have to figure out.

The whirling winds of snow had nearly blinded him. He caught the movement of the assassins coming towards him—almost too late. When he noticed, they were closing in on him, and he allowed it. He wanted to talk.

"You are not allowed on these grounds," one of the assassins said, strapped in several weapons ranging from traditional steel to advanced guns. His mask and outfit was a white as pure as the snow. He must have been the leader, because while he plainly stood, the rest of the assassins had their weapons drawn and aimed.

Suddenly, the assassin next to the leader lowered her weapon. Her eyes widened above her half-mask and she murmured, "It's him."

"Do not lower your weapon," the leader spat at her, and she immediately obeyed. He never once turned away from Damian. "I know who he is. There are no exceptions. You are not allowed. Turn back or be killed."

"We can't," the female assassin said, her tone harsh. "We must bring him to Lady Talia."

"He's a traitor," another spoke. "We'll bring his head."

Damian grew impossibly annoyed as the conversation dragged on. The threat was the final straw—he was standing right in front of them, for fuck's sake. "You're welcome to try," Damian spoke loudly, louder than needed to draw their attention. "I'll happily deliver my mother your scalps as my welcoming present."

The assassins glanced at each other. They were hardly fazed by the threat—Damian knew they wouldn't be—but his words made them think.

"We will take you to Lady Talia," the leader of the band decided. "But we will take your belongings."

Damian huffed in annoyance. He knew he was going to have to pander, but this was ridiculous. Still, he did not argue. He unclipped his knapsack and tossed it at their feet. The leader grabbed it swiftly and began to lead the way. As they walked, one of the assassins glanced at Damian's person and hesitated.

"Your belt," he began, indicating the utility belt still strapped to Damian's person.

"Fuck off," Damian said stiffly and he continued to walk. The leader didn't bother to argue.

The trek was easier with the assassins leading the way. The gates of the hideout drew nearer, its walls seeming to grow grander with each step. The closer Damian stood before it, the more he wondered how it could have been lost to him.

Damian fought back a sigh of relief when the gates were drawn and he was finally led inside. The building sheltered him from the harsh winds and heat was already beginning to return to his face.

"You will wait here," the leader said, taking him to a small, closed off room. The room was already surrounded with guards. Damian eyed them all wearily.

"All of these guards for one boy?" he said mockingly.

"Do not test my patience," the leader said, hissing. "I will return with the mistress momentarily. Then we will decide what to do with you."

Damian just shrugged and took a seat at the bench in the middle of the room. He glanced around idly. No windows. The only door out had two guards. He waited for what seemed like forever, melted snow dripping from his clothes, words of what to say racing through his head.

Finally, he heard the guards at the door moving aside. Damian glanced up at the rustling, a line of guards entering through the doors in perfect formation before his mother was finally revealed.

Talia stood for a moment, eyes quickly scanning over him, before looking at the squad leader.

"You didn't take his belt," she said simply, sternly. At that, the leader faltered to come up with a response. The assassin who made the observation from earlier seemed to bow his head and Damian nearly snorted in amusement. But when the squad leader began to speak, Talia raised her hand as a means to stop him from talking.

Damian stared, unblinking.

"I suppose it matters not. Return his things to him. He is my guest," she said. She looked at the squad leader who had found him.

The leader could not disobey. Damian's belongings were returned to him, and whatever biting words the leader might have had were silenced in the presence of the Demon's Daughter. Damian attached his pack and clipped everything into place before daring to look at his mother, waiting as patiently as everyone else for the next order.

"You're taller," she said, looking at him. Then she moved into the hallway and Damian followed.

Damian walked through the halls and corridors. Even though most of the building was new, it still resembled the hideout of his childhood. As they passed each room, Damian compared what had changed, and by doing so, brought back memories of his far youth. In that courtyard, she had taught him how to use a sword. In that room, she had taught him history. In that observatory, she taught him the stars.

His eyes darted upward, facing the back of his mother's figure. She moved as swiftly and regally as always, her lines of guards following her even though she hardly needed it. Something about walking in these halls with his mother before him sprung forth this childish impulse to reach up and grab her hand. And then maybe she would look down at him, either scolding him harshly and saying _not now_ , or she would maybe smile at him and wrap her arm around his shoulders, drawing him to her hip.

Damian immediately buried the desire, glaring at the back of his mother's head. It would never work, there would be no _looking up_ at her, he was already taller than her. And he still hadn't forgiven her for what she had done, and probably never would.

Finally, Talia and her entourage slowed to a stop. Talia looked at him, and Damian was able to stop and get a good look at her face. She hadn't aged much, not nearly as much as Bruce, but the rings around her eyes were a tad darker.

"You can stay here for tonight," she said.

"I'm not staying. I came here for—"

"You've come here uninvited. I have plans. I'll arrange to meet with you tomorrow. A servant will grab you in the morning. Until then, feel free to rest here."

She said nothing else, immediately turning down a hallway. Damian watched her go, a bit shocked by this unexpected turn in events, but he felt a familiar ache in his muscles. His abilities didn't erase fatigue and after the long flight, the bumpy right to the mountainside, and his excruciatingly long climb—he was exhausted.

Still, as he laid down on the bed, sudden thoughts of worry crossed his mind. Here he was, alone in the middle of nowhere, with no allies in close range, in the clutches of the woman who had already killed him once. Damian's hand instinctively travelled to his abdomen, remembering where he had been stabbed, and he wondered how he would ever be able to sleep with both eyes closed.

However, he knew this was coming. He already decided his fate. And with that thought in mind, he tried to sleep.

* * *

Damian jumped in place when he heard the loud pounding on his door. He immediately reached for the dagger placed underneath his pillow, but when he sat up and looked, he realized it was just knocking. He tried to relax his nerves, but still, he sheathed the dagger and carried it behind his back when he opened the door.

He opened it just a peek, finding a pair of servants standing there. All of the servants in the League of Assassins were just novices, and the pair or servants were likely only a few years younger than Damian, but their stiff posture and uniform appearance gave them an air of maturity.

"Lady Talia has told us to wake you," one of them said. She handed Damian a neatly folded stack of clothes. "You may wear this until you've eaten and bathed. We will show you where to go."

Damian was certain he could remember where to go, though he hardly cared for any of those things. There was only one thing that concerned him. "Where is she?"

"Lady Talia is busy. She will meet with you later. For now, you must get ready."

Damian's eyes would have rolled into the back of his head if he hadn't already seen it coming. But if Damian knew anything about his mother it's that if he wanted anything in return, he'd have to play along with her demands first.

Damian expected them to leave but the two immediately shuffled in the room, making the bed and cleaning after him. Still, Damian didn't hesitate to dress—the assassins were reserved, yes, but hardly modest. Besides, the clothes were mostly items he could easily throw on. Damian scoffed at how traditional they were—he felt as though he were a child again.

When Damian glanced back, he saw the servants moving his things. He immediately snatched away his utility belt from the hands of a servant.

"You're not to touch my things."

"We were only cleaning as we were instructed," one of them said, lowering her gaze.

"I'm sure you were instructed to do a lot of things," Damian said, narrowing his eyes. Both servants looked at him with tight expressions, unblinking underneath his scrutiny—a look that Damian recognized as an assassin's reaction anytime when accused. In truth, Damian could not be sure whether or not they were trustworthy—it all tied into whether or not he could trust his mother, and that was a very gray area. Still, his mother had decided to let him keep his things, so he clipped on the belt and said, "You can proceed."

In hurried Mandarin, one servant said to the other, almost muttering, "I hate the way he looks at us. He looks at us like we're lower than him, almost like he pities us."

The other responded in hushed whispers of the same tongue, "At least the blueness of his eyes are attractive. Do you suppose he gets them from his American side?"

"No way. I heard his father's a monster and has to hide behind a mask. Any of his good qualities probably come from the mistress."

"I can understand you," Damian said in the same language, making sure to speak loudly and clearly to make his point. At that, both servants bowed their heads, their embarrassment conveying the most emotion he had seen since he stuck his foot in the door of that place.

"Sorry," one stammered, returning to English. "I didn't—you're _half_ so I presumed—"

"Yes," Damian said sharply. "You did presume." He was dressed now and had lost patience, so he added, "Aren't you supposed to show me where to go?"

"Right," the other said, standing up fully. "I'll show you," she said, and she didn't look at him even once as she led the way.

When he was served breakfast, his scrutiny and anxiety began to rise again. He glanced at all the foods on the table waiting for him, the worries of poison clouding his mind. He almost wanted to reach into his belt then and there to see if he had packed his antidotes but he resisted. If the assassins wanted to kill him, there was nothing he could do to stop them anyways. There were far too many for him to fight. So he hesitantly ate, realizing after the first few bites that all of the dishes on the table had been his favorites.

In the baths, there were guards outside of the doors. The servants inside of the room were focused on laying out Damian's new set of clothes but even so, despite their distracted gazes, he was waiting for one of them to sneak up from behind and shove his head underneath the water, drowning him.

But every fear his mind could imagine never came to fruition. And finally, when noon began to approach, the servants finally led him to a room where he was instructed to wait.

He had been waiting so long for something, _anything_ , to happen that the silence of the room was unnerving. The anticipation of meeting his mother was beginning to crawl from the inside out. He tried to calm himself, knowing perfectly well that this was likely Talia's way of playing games with his mind, but for him, rational thinking came and went.

As he waited at a small table in the center of a grand room, he stared down at his hands, his eyes fixated on the embroidery at the edge of his sleeves. The clothing was far too traditional, something Damian had scoffed at when he first saw it, but now he took note of the colors of the silk. Green, his grandfather's colors. Green, his mother's eyes. Green, the waters of the Lazarus Pit.

Damian's eyes narrowed. Mind games.

Finally, at long last, the doors opened.

Damian didn't turn his head. It could only be one person. Talia made her way to him, and Damian caught the scent of her perfume as she rounded the table—it was the same scent he remembered, even after all these years, and Damian found it odd. Talia sat across the table, and though many years had passed, she seemed almost the same.

She smiled but there was no spark in her eye. A fake smile. And she said, "I heard that your servants from this morning have displeased you."

Of course. Nothing was a secret from her. Every living thing in this room was subject to her command. As if to provide proof, a line of guards stood in formation around the table.

 _Yes_ , Damian immediately wanted to respond. He wanted to go off on every single thing they had done to disrespect him. But he felt the buckle of his belt pressing closely to his abdomen, the symbol— _his_ symbol—emblazoned on the surface, and it felt like a reminder. If he wasn't careful to watch his tongue, his mother could do something unpredictable—perhaps even killing two servant girls who clearly did not want to be sent to his room, all for the crime of upsetting him when they thought he could not understand. So he bit his tongue and changed his course of wording.

"They were fine," Damian said. "There was just a misunderstanding."

"That's not what I heard. I heard they insulted you." There was a stirring in her eyes, and Damian couldn't tell if she was trying to test him or protect him.

Damian was still. Unblinking under scrutiny. Like an assassin. "I hardly remember it. There are far more important things on my mind."

"Things that brought you here."

Damian nodded. "I need you to tell me what happened the day I was resurrected."

"No," Talia said simply.

"I'm not asking," Damian said, his expression darkening.

Talia's lips quirked up into a smile. She gave Damian an amused, knowing look. "So you say. But you're not in the position to exactly threaten me, are you?"

He wasn't. His silence confirmed that.

Talia leaned forward, folding her hands over the table. There was a look in her eyes. Something cruel. "It's difficult for you to handle, isn't it? To go from having everyone at your command to not getting what you want?"

Damian looked beyond Talia, where a line of obedient assassins stood, awaiting her orders. They stood there, their gazes watching him with scrutiny. It almost made him laugh. Once upon a time, they all followed his orders just as closely. They answered his every whim, no matter how childish—and they had been childish.

They answered his every wish, exactly as they had been trained. It wasn't until Damian met his father that he realized that wasn't how things worked. That people could not be controlled.

It had been difficult but knowing that people had choices had also been liberating—it let him know that he had the same ability.

"I'm past that now."

"Truly?" Talia gave him a skeptical look, but there was something amused in her eyes. "And yet you come in here and demand everything."

"I haven't demanded anything yet. I'm willing to work an arrangement."

"Arrangement for what?"

"Answers."

"And in exchange?"

Damian took a deep breath. "Answers."

At this, Talia's eyes darted to the side. Her mouth was tightly shut as she considered this option. "How many answers will I have?"

"As many as it takes," Damian said.

"Fine," she decided, leaning back in her chair. She rest the tips of her nails on the surface of the table, lightly tapping the edge. Damian was momentarily relieved, until her gaze grew dark. "But I will have my answers first."

This wasn't ideal—but he couldn't argue at this point. "Fine. But before you ask your first question, I must make it clear: I will not answer questions about Father."

At that, the corner of Talia's mouth quirked into a small smile.

"No need to worry, my son. My feud with your father is over. He's broken. He's hardly a threat." Talia's eyes darted to the side. She spoke like she was on the verge of laughing but Damian sensed her bitterness beneath the facade. She added dismissively, "All that power and he's finished by a _fall_. Killing him would be a waste of my time."

Damian bristled at the insult but Talia carried on, not bothering to dwell on it. She moved onto her first question. "Gotham has a new protector. That circus boy." Talia looked at Damian. "Why hasn't he come here?"

"It has nothing to do with him," Damian said.

"Or in other words, he doesn't know you're here."

"Is this how you plan on wasting your questions? Then why not ask why _I'm_ here?"

Talia ignored Damian's impatience. "You have our locations tracked. Does he have any plans of coming here?"

"You're not a concern. Next question."

"Does he have ties with the Justice League?"

Damian found himself reluctant to answer. Every question caused him to scrutinize his mother more and more. "Yes."

Talia seemed interested by this, causing Damian to feel anxious. Should he have lied? Why was his mother so interested in this information and what could she be plotting?

And it continued like this for a little longer, and with every answer concerning Batman, Damian felt more and more of a traitor. He was careful to not give any information that he thought would be especially harmful—but considering who was asking the questions, Damian wasn't sure whether or not he was being cautious enough.

Finally, Damian's nerves were getting to him. "Enough. This is more than enough information. One more question then you must allow me mine."

For once, Talia backed down. "I don't have another question but I do have a request."

Request? "You're going to demand favors after I've given you so much information already?"

Talia was unfazed. "Join the League of Assassins."

Damian stopped.

"You must be joking," he said finally. He had suspected but to have the audacity to _ask_ —

"I'm not," she said. She looked at him deeply, and Damian felt intimidated by her eyes. They almost seemed sincere. "Your skillset has improved. You've matured. I feel that you could help us in our mission to change the world. _We_ believe that. More than that…" She sighed a little, and Damian thought it false, but there was an unexpected level of emotion in his mother's eyes that he rarely ever saw… and it made him believe. "You're family."

"Is that what this is about?" Damian said, leaning back in his seat. He couldn't believe what he was hearing—but the pieces of the puzzle came together. He gritted his teeth in annoyance. "You served me my favorite meals. You dressed me in Grandfather's colors. Everywhere you go, others follow you, as if it's some display of power. The servants from this morning were of my age, and their hair hung around their shoulders when they should have been pulled back. Did you think this would tempt me? Did you think I would just come crawling back so easily after what _you_ did?"

"You had betrayed me. I made it clear that if you decided to stay with your father, we would be enemies. Had the roles been reversed, you would have done the same. The choice is as much yours as it was mine."

"That's _ridiculous_ ," Damian hissed, clenching the arms of the chair. "I would have stopped myself. I would have given up. I would have done anything besides _plotting to kill my own blood_. This talk is over, your answer is _no_. Now I've come to have you answer my questions and I will have them answered. What happened to me when I was in Lazarus Pit?"

"I was also dead at that time."

"Grandfather must have told you the story."

"You could be great, Damian. You could rule the world."

" _Enough_ ," Damian said with a growl. "Tell me what happened that day."

Talia's eyes seemed to glow. "I'm sorry. But everything in regards to the Lazarus Pit lie with your grandfather. I know nothing."

"That's _bullshit_ ," Damian spat, his patience run thin. "You know everything that happened, you're just not going to tell me. You're going to take your stupid answers and give nothing in return because you've lost your honor, your pride, your—"

"Are you still sure you're past getting everything that you want?"

"Spare me. What happened that day? Tell me."

"I have. I said that I know nothing."

He was angry. _Beyond_ angry.

"Your League is garbage. You waste all this time trying to figure out our next plan when the answer's right in front of you: you're _weak_. Most of the pits have been squandered, your numbers are lower than they've ever been, and you and Grandfather can't even work together half of the time," Damian said. Talia looked at him dryly as he ranted. "You're a has-been, and the only reason why we haven't come here and suplexed every single one of you into the goddamned ground is because you're _not worth anybody's time_. Now enough stalling—you have your answers, and I _will_ get my answers and you _will_ be the one to tell me. So one more time: _what happened that day_?"

"I know nothing."

" _Answer me_!" Damian demanded, slamming his fists on the table. Talia didn't so much as flinch at his outlash. She simply stared back with those feline-like eyes, ominous in her silence. Unreadable. Damian sucked in a breath, trying to calm himself. Finally, he tore away. "I'm leaving. This was a waste of time," he muttered to himself.

As he turned on his heel, he heard a faint noise that stopped him. The voice was feminine, the noise short and somewhere between laughter and a breath. She was amused.

Damian turned back to her, glaring, expecting her to chide him on his outburst. But instead she looked up, a shine in her eyes, making them look glassy. The emotion behind her eyes as she looked upon him might have felt like pride if Damian wasn't so aware of her cruelty.

Her darkly painted lips curled up into a smile and she said simply, "It's been so long since I've seen you, I wasn't expecting to see myself in you anymore."

Damian knew instantly what she was referring to. He had seen it when he first looked at her face, though he didn't want to accept it. The high cheekbones, the elegant slope of the jawline, the shape of her eyes, the copper skin—

More than that, it was like looking into the mirror.

He clenched his fist by his side. It was also the last thing he wanted to hear.

"Goodbye, mother," he said stiffly, trying to shrug his way past the circle of guards.

"Say hello to your crippled father for me. I assume he's cowering in his cave while the circus-bastard runs around making mockery of his work."

Damian kicked the nearest guard, bringing him to his knees. He yanked the sword out of the scabbard strapped to his back before knocking him away. Before the other guards could move forward, Damian was already on the table. Just as all the guards pulled out their weapons and circled around them, Damian had the blade to his mother's throat.

They stood at a standstill. The guards awaited Talia to rescind her order for them to stand down. Damian paid them no mind, focusing only on the sword in his grip and the loud beating of his own pulse.

His hands didn't quiver nearly as much as his resolve. He gritted his teeth, Talia's dark eyes reflecting back at him in the polished steel, her head held high as the tip stayed an inch from her throat.

Damian's grip tightened, calculating in his head the amount of seconds it would take to slit her throat before the guards finally leapt in. It would be so easy to finish it all, right there at that moment. He may never escape, but at least they'd die together, and maybe in that way, Damian could erase all the pain she had caused.

His breathing started to slow. It was pointless, he reminded himself. He thought of the burning. The fire in his veins. The pit.

It was pointless to kill her here. She had been revived along with him and she could be revived again and again and again. And he could too.

And that was what scared him. Not dying but being reborn.

Besides, he had taken a vow.

"Like I said," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "If the roles had been reversed."

"No," Damian said. He lowered the weapon, even knowing that it might spell his own death. "You're right—we are alike. I can admit that now. But I've made my choices."

"Lady Talia," a masked woman behind his mother said, her voice nearly a whisper. Her blade travelled over Talia's shoulder and pointed Damian in the face. Damian turned to look directly at it, defiant. "We await your orders, mistress."

"I gave you your orders," Talia said, loud enough for all to hear. Everyone lowered their weapons. Talia turned to face her son. "You've grown weak, _bibi_. But if my time in the Lazarus Pit has taught me anything, my son, it is the ways of life. Return to me, Damian, and we can share this lifetime together. I am willing to put our pasts behind us if you join me. The offer will always be there and that is all I can give. I can make you strong again. I can give you your resolve."

"There was a time when you would have _loathed_ being placed in the Pit. You're the one who's lost all resolve," Damian fought back. He dropped the sword unceremoniously on the table, the steel clangering. He hopped off the edge of the table and prepared for his journey back home.

* * *

It was the dead of night when he returned to Gotham. The sight of the city, it's nightlife keeping the world alight, felt like a welcome relief. He was home.

When he parked the aircraft back into the bayside hideout, Damian sat in the seat of the craft for awhile, absolutely exhausted from the hours he had spent flying overseas. He almost wanted to sleep then and there, to save returning to the manor for the morning after, but he decided it was unfair. He had been away for too long.

He climbed out and grabbed his bags. He was heading for the exit when a voice stopped him.

"Did you enjoy your trip?"

Damian jumped in surprise. He turned toward the source of the voice, his father emerging from the shadows. Even after all this time, his father could still do that much.

Damian still hadn't decided what to say. He had hours to think it over. The entire flight back, he thought of nothing but how he would explain himself, but underneath the gaze of his father, his shame ran too deep to think of excuses.

"How is she?" he asked. And at that, Damian jerked his head up.

"How did you know?" Damian instantly demanded. Bruce looked at him flatly. "Richard," Damian said with a sigh.

"No, actually. But it's nice to know he was in on it," Bruce said, unhappy.

Damian closed his eyes, in disbelief over his slip-up. _Stupid_ , he scolded himself, though part of him was relieved that Richard had kept their secret after all.

"He didn't know," Damian said.

"But he knows something, doesn't he?"

"He knew that I wanted to see my mother. But he didn't know that I had made plans to actually go—I didn't want anyone to know." Damian looked at Bruce, whose expression was unreadable as always. "But you found out anyways."

"There was nothing to figure out. I realized it the instant you were gone," Bruce said. Bruce looked directly at him, two pairs of identical blues meeting. "I know you better than you think. Or, better than you're willing to admit."

Damian's gaze fell downwards. His father continued, pacing around the room.

"I get it," he said. "You don't feel like anyone will understand what you're going through. You think you're the only one who can figure it out. More than that, you don't want to burden anyone with your problems, because it's your responsibility and yours alone. I get it, Damian, I really do. But that type of thinking is what ends up hurting you—it's not a matter of how many times you scrape yourself, or get shot at, or even break your back. It's wanting to face your problems alone. It's _being_ alone. No one can do _this_ —"he gestured to the room, filled with their vehicles and equipment emblazoned with both Batman and Robin symbols"—all alone. It took me years to realize that."

Bruce was speaking of himself as much as he was speaking of his son, yet every word seemed to jab deeper and deeper into Damian. For once, he empathized too well.

"I'm sorry," Damian said finally. He felt the rare, but familiar, swelling in his throat. Even though he lacked the words to express the deepness of his apology, that one simple word seemed to well up all of the shame and disgrace he had felt for the past few years, possibly ever.

"I'm not angry," Bruce said quietly, and Damian felt those words were honest.

A tense silence passed between them. Bruce exhaled softly before closing the space between them, wrapping an arm around Damian's shoulders and pulling him in. It was an uncomfortable, awkward embrace, but it served its purpose.

"Am I in trouble?"

"We'll discuss that another time. For now, I'm just glad you're home," his voice whispered in his ear, and Damian felt his chest tighten, his eyes stinging.

But he stuffed the feelings down, deciding he would not humiliate himself by blubbering. He had already shamed himself enough in the last few days. Bruce pulled away and started walking, Damian trailing closely behind.

"Where's Richard?" Damian asked.

"Patrol," Bruce said. He glanced at his watch. "He'll be out for a few more hours."

"I feel like I should say something to him."

"I'll let him know you've returned. For now, it's time to go home, and from the looks of it, you need sleep. Alfred's been worried sick."

"Right," Damian said, closing his eyes. Pennyworth was the last person he wanted to worry, though he knew the decision he was making when he left. "Do you think he'll ever accept my apology?"

"Sorry, I meant the cat," Bruce said, raising an eyebrow. "He hasn't stopped meowing at me since you've left. As for our other Alfred, I'm sure he'll accept your apology only after he's chewed you out."

" _Tt_. Of course," Damian said, smiling despite himself.

When they finally returned to the manor and Damian was in his room, exhaustion overcame him. He immediately slipped into bed, Alfred immediately hopping on the pillow next to his. Damian ran his fingers over the cat's head, the soft fur meeting his touch.

Alfred allowed the touch, his eyes seemingly glowing.

"I missed you too," Damian said, and he closed his eyes. The fear of nightmares seemed so far away—for now, Damian was just content to be in his own bed.

He drifted off easily enough, his body asleep while his mind floated between consciousness and unconsciousness. In the late of night, he felt as though he heard a door crack open and a dim light appear from the doorway, but he could not be certain if it was reality or a dream, and his eyelids were far too heavy to turn back and look.

* * *

After he put on the shirt and the pants, the red vest was the first to follow. He zipped it up, the kevlar adding the slightest bit of weight to his being, and he did the yellow frogs. After that, he pulled on his boots—one after the other, carefully doing the lacing as it was essential for it to be tight but not too tight. Then came the gloves, followed by the snapping of the bracers. For Damian, the transformation truly came into being around this point—when the utility belt wrapped around his waist and the domino mask was placed. He felt like Robin, he _became_ Robin. And always last was the cape and hood.

It was his little routine. The perfect, everyday task that came so naturally that it was no longer special or spectacular—and he loved that, even though there were very few things in this world that he genuinely loved.

Damian moved away from the bench and headed towards the batmobile, where Dick was already waiting.

"Are you ready?" Dick asked.

"Ready," Damian responded, and it felt good to be back.

And when they entered Gotham—the city alive and awake even in the darkest of nights—Damian almost wondered why he even left.

It was when they were finally alone, when the roof they were surveying from was quiet and the winds had settled, that Damian knew he had to say it.

"Sorry," Damian said, and he was surprised to hear that his voice was not alone—instead, it was speaking in unison with Dick's. They both looked at each other, surprised, and Damian was the first to add, "What?"

"Sorry," Dick repeated, also taken aback by their simultaneous apologies. He rubbed the back of his neck. "It wasn't right of me to berate you all of those times before, about the…" Dick gestured towards Damian's arm. "That, uh, _gift_ of yours, I guess I should call it. If I was in your shoes, I would probably do the same."

It was a certain surprise for Damian, who had never expected Dick to apologize.

"You weren't wrong. I was acting…" Damian trailed off.

"Stupid?" Dick suggested.

Damian's eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't go that far. But yes, I was a bit… foolish. I suppose I wanted to apologize for that. You were just saying what you thought was right, and it wasn't good of me to concern everyone."

Dick shrugged. "I knew you'd make it back. You always find a way to make it work."

"Not always," Damian said, gaze lowering. He gently placed a hand on his abdomen without realizing it.

"Lately, I've just had a harder time controlling my patience," Dick said, and he started moving again, skirting around the edge of the rooftop. He shook his head to himself as he looked at the Gotham skyline. "It just never seems to end, does it? _He_ put everything into it, dedicated his life into fighting crime even at the expense of his own health. He wore this suit until his body couldn't go on. I feel like ever since I took over, crime has just gotten worse. I feel like the nights never end, they just blur into one long one."

Realizing that he must have been rambling, Dick stopped himself. "I'm listening," Damian said, and he was.

But Dick shook his head to himself. "We should get going. There's nothing here."

Dick moved in the direction of the fire escape, Damian closely trailing behind.

"So what did you say when you went there?" Dick asked as they began to descend.

"I told the assassins that Batman has a teddy bear collection."

Dick laughed a little at that, and Damian realized it had been too long since he had last heard Dick laugh. Dick said, "You threatened to take their scalps, didn't you?"

At that, Damian faltered. Dick noticed Damian's shock and smirked.

"I know you better than you think."

The words were familiar, echoing his father's all too well. But even so, there was something distinctly _Richard_ about them. The moment was short—Dick immediately continued the trek to a new area to survey, and Damian felt a slight pang in his chest as he watched him go.

There were very few things in this world that he genuinely loved.


	5. Fourth Winter

**A/N** : No specific warnings for this chapter, just the same as the aforementioned warnings.

* * *

Fourth Winter

* * *

"What is _this_?"

The urgency in Dick's tone caused Damian to stop in the middle of his training. He turned from the punching bag to look at Dick, who had an incredulous expression on his face. Damian moved in a little closer to see what Dick was looking at, finding him sitting there while holding a single strand of hair between his fingers. Dick looked wildly disoriented as he stared it down.

Bruce, who had been sitting at the table with Dick, chuckled a little to himself. "You're too old to be keeping your hair that long anyways."

" _Old_?" Dick repeated, frowning at the silver strand.

" _Tt_. It's _one_ hair. It's hardly worth the effort of fretting over," Damian said, rolling his eyes. He couldn't believe he had stopped all for _that_.

"It always starts with one," Bruce said, almost smirking. His hair had started to grow grey years ago, but lately he was starting to get wisps of white. "The cowl ages you."

"Stop reminding me why I shouldn't have taken this gig," Dick said, sulking. He waved the hair away, his shoulders slumping. "I don't _feel_ old."

"Stop complaining. It's obvious you want us to tell you how young you still are," Damian said, scowling. "You don't need our confirmation."

"Do _you_ think I'm old?"

"I never said you were."

"You also aren't saying _no_."

"You're fishing."

"And _you're_ avoiding the question."

Damian couldn't find the words to argue. His face turned a little red. Dick sighed heavily, resting his head on his fist.

"I don't even know why I asked. You're so obvious," Dick said.

"I mean… you're not Father's age."

"Because _that's_ reassuring," Dick said sarcastically, ignoring Bruce's pointed look.

"I don't know what you want from me."

"Just wait until _you_ start to go grey."

" _Tt_. I'll just shave it off."

"I'm not shaving off _my_ hair."

"Then stop complaining."

"Anyways," Bruce said, opening up a folder from the stack of documents that had been sitting on the table. Damian should have went back to his training—he usually left all of the case work to Bruce and Dick, but he found himself curious. He pulled the folder off the top of the stack.

"Did you find any leads on the commissioner's murderer?" he asked, reading the file.

"None—and I don't expect that we will anytime soon. Whoever did it was well-trained," Bruce said, snatching the file back from Damian's hands. "We'll let the GCPD work it over. We have old cases that still need to be tied up first. Besides, the public already believes that Batman is the killer—it'd be best to keep our distance."

"They also think I'm the bogeyman underneath their bed," Dick said, scoffing a little. He flipped through a file. "I'm sure that in time, I will also be sole cause for unemployment, divorces and cavities."

Dick was leaning over the table, flipping through some papers, when suddenly he jumped in place, yelping loudly. Bruce and Damian both looked at him strangely for his sudden reaction. Damian glanced under the table, noticing something clinging to Dick's leg.

" _Alfred_ ," Damian said, using his scolding tone. The cat just looked at him, his claws still embedded in Dick's shin. "Let go."

Alfred reluctantly released his claws, padding his way towards Damian. The cat laid on top of Damian's feet. Damian found the cat's behavior to be odd but accepted him laying down on him.

"Your cat creeps me out," Dick said, eyes narrowing at the black and white feline. This news was nothing different or upsetting—the cat was probably the least popular member of the family. The only ones that Alfred seemed to tolerate were Damian and Pennyworth—he hissed and clawed at everyone else. In turn, everyone had preferred the gentle and easy-going Titus and couldn't be bothered with the cat.

"Why would the big, scary, commissioner-murdering Batman be afraid of a simple cat?" Damian said, unable to restrain a smile, and Alfred allowed himself to be petted.

"Sometimes he just stares at me. And I feel like he's always around whenever we're talking about something serious, like he's actually listening to our conversation." Dick talked as if wondering out loud. To Damian, it sounded like he was trying to find another excuse to hate his cat. Dick added, "Don't his eyes ever look human to you?"

"You're insane," Damian said, scoffing.

"Perhaps it would be best to keep Alfred in the manor," Bruce said, his words polite but the underlying tone feeling more than a simple suggestion. Damian caught the hint but still, he refused.

"He goes where he pleases and sometimes he scratches. It's in his nature."

"Is that so?" Bruce said, raising a brow.

"My leg is not a scratching post," Dick said, his face souring. Damian sighed a little and gathered Alfred in his arms. The cat's ears flattened but it sat quietly, albeit stiffly, in Damian's arms as he was carried back into the manor. Once in the manor, Damian relinquished his hold, and Alfred took off. As he stood in the parlor, something caught his eye, and Damian found himself inching towards the window. The curtains were open, sunlight reflecting off of the snow.

Damian leaned against the pane, careful to not breathe on the glass, and stared curiously at the birds in the yard that had not yet migrated. He watched them for awhile.

* * *

"You're literally going to _die_ ," Damian hissed through his teeth.

Dick shot him a disapproving look. "Robin, you're not helping."

"Neither is he!" Damian said, exasperated.

"Please, don't kill me!" their victim yelled from behind closed doors.

Damian looked up at the clock hanging on the ceiling. They didn't have much time left. The bomb was set to detonate, and while the estimated time couldn't be entirely sure, their bomber had set the bomb to go off around an hour after arrival. Which, depending on which of their sources were correct, meant that they had about fifteen minutes to get the building evacuated. Or five.

It was after hours in the office and the only person that remained was one workaholic who was terrified of Batman.

And Damian was determined that if this man wasn't afraid of Robin as well, he _would_ be.

"I'm breaking the glass."

" _Robin_ —"

It was too late. Damian grabbed the lamp sitting nearby and smashed it through the office window. He reached around and opened the lock to the door. The man screamed in absolute terror. Dick sighed heavily.

They entered the office, the worker stumbling backwards and crawling back on his hands to the far side of the wall.

"No! Get away from me!" he cried, shielding his face.

Damian looked at Dick, frowning. "We don't have time for this."

"No," Dick finally agreed. "We don't."

Dick strided forward, ignoring the man's pleas, and grabbed him by the back of his shirt. He tried to run but Dick's grasp was too tight. They wouldn't have time to make it to the exit—they were already ten stories up. Damian went ahead and set a detonator of his own on the much stronger, more enforced windows of the building. Dick wrangled the man under his cape as the detonator went off, a strong current of cold wind entering the building.

Damian waited for Dick and the man to go first. Dick managed to pull out his grappling gun even as the victim struggled. Dick shot the gun out the window towards the neighboring building and swung off, the office worker in one arm. Damian followed closely.

They made it to the bottom, where Dick finally let the man go. The man lost his balance and fell to his knees, and Damian grimaced as the man threw up in the street. As if on cue, a loud sound went off, and Damian turned just in time for the building to collapse.

Damian pulled up his cape to protect himself from the hot gust of air and any potential fragments. When the cloud of dust settled, Damian lifted the cape to find the upper floors burst into pieces. He swung back his cape, sweeping the dust back.

Dick, who had been shielding the man with his cape, stepped back. The man turned towards the building, the same floor they had been on completely collapsed, and his eyes went wide. He looked back up at Dick, realizing that he had been saved.

He was shaking but he managed to splutter out, "Thank you."

Dick glanced at him, almost expressionless with the cowl covering his face, and he said nothing as he took off.

"Don't wet yourself," Damian muttered to the man, before following after Dick.

They didn't make it far before they were stopped by a familiar voice.

"Nice work."

Damian and Dick stopped to look at Barbara Gordon, who was approaching them. Her father's coat made her role as the new commissioner ever more apparent. It was nice not being hunted by the police anymore, but it still didn't spare her from Dick's scrutiny. He was still sore about what had happened between them years ago.

"We've been trying to spot the next bombing for weeks."

"I'm sure you would have figured it out. You always do," Dick said, though the effort it took him to say the words made them hardly feel like a compliment. If Barbara was fazed, she didn't let it show. Her expression was as steely as ever.

"I need to talk to you," she said, and she took off with the expectation that Dick would follow. For a moment, Dick stayed planted to the spot he stood in, almost stubbornly, but Barbara kept walking. Exhaling softly, Dick reluctantly moved to follow her, and Damian stayed closely behind, his curiosity rising.

She took them to a place where they could talk privately, far from the emergency vehicles that were circled around the detonated building. In the back of an alley, she finally addressed them.

"There have been things circulating in Gotham and I think the murder of the previous commissioner might have something to do with it. But this theory is _purely_ speculation," Barbara said, her voice low.

"How do I know I can trust this information?" Dick asked. At that, Barbara rolled her eyes.

"You can't be serious. Look, I'm asking you to put the past behind you for _two minutes_ so I can warn you about something serious."

"Something serious. And speculative." Dick shook his head to himself. "Whatever you want to tell me, I'm not interested. And congratulations on your promotion," he said, his voice flat. He turned to walk away.

"Wait—come on, I'm trying to talk to you, stop hurrying off!" she said, exasperated. She grabbed for his wrist to pull him back, but when they locked gazes, she pulled away her hand like she had touched fire. Her eyes darted to the side, her expression looking conflicted. "Look, this news applies directly to _you_. I wouldn't even say anything if it was about anyone else. This might be a useless warning, you might even know already. But I just thought—well, I figured if _you_ didn't know, you _ought_ to know."

Dick stood, listening. Barbara sighed a little and continued.

"I was talking to Dinah. She has connections and, well, you know, and… look, the point is—I know you were convinced _he_ disappeared, but there's been some really strange things going on lately, some really odd deals being made in the shadows, and I think I'm starting to pick up a trail that leads right to Gotham."

"I need you to be direct—otherwise, you're wasting my time," Dick said. At that, Barbara flushed slightly, and even Damian felt the sting of Dick's blunt words.

"Right," Barbara said, and Damian wasn't sure if that was annoyance or defeat in her voice. "I think Deathstroke is working in Gotham."

Damian stopped, looking up at Barbara. The tension in the air changed in an instant. But before Damian could speak about _how_ , Dick spoke up.

"I know," he said finally.

"You do?" Damian said incredulously. This was news to him. By Barbara's expression, Damian could tell she was an inch from asking the same question.

"The Justice League started tracking him over a year ago, per my request," Dick said, his words sounding like a heavy confession. "He's been evasive, that's for sure, but he was definitely alive and working. I already got the tip-off that he might be headed for Gotham. I told the League that if he did, I would handle it."

"That's not…" Barbara trailed off, shaking her head to herself, her eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. "No, that's insane. You can't do that."

"Thank you for the tip but I'm taking care of it," Dick said, and he started moving.

"How can you leave after telling me this _now_?" she called after him, but his figure was already disappearing into the shadows. Damian moved to follow him, but he was stopped when Barbara turned her attention towards him. "This is stupid, right? Tell me I'm not the only one who thinks this is stupid."

Damian was without words of comfort. His own mind was reeling from this information being dropped on him. "I have to go," he told her hopelessly.

She ran a hand through her hair, sighing. "Okay, fine. Go. Just watch after him for me."

Damian nodded—that, at least, he could promise. He hurried to catch up to Batman, the slush splattering beneath his boots as he ran.

"Was all of that true?" he asked, catching up. Dick didn't respond. Damian found himself growing frustrated. "Answer me. Is Deathstroke really—"

" _Enough_ ," Dick said, his voice a growl, suddenly stopping in his path. Damian shrank back at the sudden reprimand. Dick must have realized his tone, because his voice softened, sounding almost apologetic, "Look. This is complicated. But believe me, I'm handling it."

"But how?" Damian said, scowling. "You two have too much history. He's the one who attacked your friends. He's the one who impersonated Father. He's the one who destroyed—"

Dick shot Damian a look, effectively stopping him from saying too much.

"I know what he did. I know what he's capable of. That's exactly why you shouldn't worry about it—I'll take care of him. For now, we're going to continue business as usual. Got it?"

It wasn't really an option. "Got it."

As they continued moving throughout the city, a question nagged at Damian. "How do you suppose he's still been working after all these years? I remember him being _old_ —and this was back when I was just a child."

"He's slow-aging—it's all thanks to those abilities of his. He's twice my age and he moves like I did in my peak years. Combine that with his healing abilities, superhuman strength, and the quick receptors in his brain and he's practically unstoppable—well, for a regular human like me, anyways."

"And you're sure you can stop him?"

"What did I tell you earlier?" Dick said, sounding annoyed. "This conversation is over."

"He's not the only one with healing abilities."

Dick stopped in his tracks, looking at Damian incredulously. "This is exactly why I didn't want to say anything. Now drop it."

"I'm just saying, you're not the only with a grudge, and we have an advantage against him. _Me_."

"What is it about you that _always_ wants to pick a fight?" Dick said, exasperated. There was tension in his words. "Haven't I told you that I've heard enough? You're starting to talk crazy."

"What is it about you that's always _avoiding_ a fight? It's your job, isn't it?" Damian quipped, just as defensively. "And what's so crazy about it? If we take him on together, we could defeat him. You've beaten him before, you just didn't have that extra edge. _I am_ that extra edge."

"You're diving into things you don't understand. You're trying to fight enemies that are bigger than you, tougher than you, smarter than you. You're not ready, _believe me_. If he wasn't so dangerous, I'd easily let you run off—only so he could teach you a lesson or two on where your teenaged ego can get you."

Damian knew Dick was speaking from his own personal experiences but even so, he was not dissuaded. Dick had made it out alive when facing Deathstroke one-on-one, and while Dick had also been a well-trained prodigy, Damian was sure that he was better than Dick had been at the same age. "But he's _not_ dangerous, he—"

"I can't keep _looking after you_ , alright?" Dick snapped. Damian scowled at the insinuation, but he kept his mouth shut tight only because he could feel the anger in Dick's voice. As usual, he was pushing him too far. Dick continued, going off, "You're a wild card. You're talented and gifted, sure, but you have no control over those abilities of yours. The last thing I need when I'm fighting a top tier assassin is some hotheaded kid hanging by my heels."

"If I'm such a heavy burden, why bother keeping me around?"

"That's not what I said."

"You may as well have."

"Stop twisting my words. You don't think I understand what's going on here? I was only a little older than you when I first fought Deathstroke, and he's not a man who can be defeated by spirit and determination. I learned that real fast and nearly paid for it with my life, on several accounts. And if getting my ass kicked wasn't a quick reminder of how weak I _actually_ was, what happened in Blüdhaven is. I have the blood of a hundred thousand people on my hands—and that's something I have to live with. Take my word for it: you're not as tough as you think. You're not as clever as you think. And you're not stronger than Deathstroke. Period. And if you think you are, then maybe _I'm_ the one _you_ shouldn't bother keeping around."

Dick didn't bother to wait for Damian's response. The conversation was done. He took off, the black cape flitting behind him.

* * *

They continued business as usual, as Bruce and Dick had instructed. The talks about the commissioner's murder and Deathstroke disappeared. After how poorly their last conversation went, Damian didn't want to bring up the Terminator at all, though the assassin was always heavy on his mind.

It was hard to chase after small fry when there was a dangerous criminal running around. Damian found his patience short whenever they chased after petty criminals.

"This is a waste of time," he said, grumbling as he zip-tied the wrists of a bank robber they had caught. Dick overheard him as he was wrangling up the rest of the robbers.

"Do your job," Dick said simply.

"There are people out there being tortured. Murdered. We have super criminals and terrorists out on the streets. And we have to focus on chasing these money-grubbing, selfish pricks." Damian finished the zip tie and looked into the face of the robber. Both glared at each other. "Does it feel good to _waste our time_ while there are people out there being attacked?"

"Then go get them," the robber said, snarling his teeth. Damian's hand clenched into a fist. He felt a sudden impulse to punch this man but he reeled back the feeling.

He stood up and went to help Dick, who was struggling with a particular robber.

"Let go!" he yelled, thrashing in Dick's hold. Damian's eyes narrowed in suspicion. This robber's strength seemed to be on par with Richard's, though he hardly looked the part, being half of Dick's size. Dick tried to reach for the tranquilizer on his belt when the robber's elbow swung back, striking Dick in the gut. Dick staggered back a step and it was enough for the robber to escape.

Damian immediately pursued. He already had wasted most of his tools getting the robbers down in the first place. He didn't realize how fast this man was—he had to have some type of metahuman ability, subtly increasing his strength.

Still, he was panicked and didn't know where to run. Damian quickly cut him off, leaping over a table and landing in his path.

"Get away from me!" he yelled as Damian threw him against the table. The robber quickly recovered, swinging his arm and striking Damian across the cheek.

Damian tasted copper in his mouth. His head reeled at the sheer impact. And somewhere in that pain, something snapped.

He saw red.

He quickly charged forward, grabbing a fistful of the man's hair, slamming it onto the table. Red sprayed forth from the man's nose. It should have been enough, but when the red splattered the surface, it didn't feel like it was enough. There needed to be more.

So Damian tightened his grip, slammed the head against the table again. The man cried out and staggered out of his grip. He's down on the ground, he's bleeding, his hand is raised. But it isn't enough. There needs to be more. He needs to pay.

Damian swung a kick and the man was down. Everything was starting to blur. Damian was vaguely aware of his heartbeat, beating like a drum, rage swimming through his blood.

And it feels familiar. It feels like a dream.

He was angry but he couldn't remember why he was angry. Even the man on the floor seemed to become nothing at all, a man without an identity or purpose, just a being that Damian wanted to punish. So he grabs him by the collar, holding him in place as he delivers a punch.

"Robin."

Richard's voice felt like a whisper in an orchestra, his voice lost in the loud sounds of Damian's violence. His fist hitting against a body. The thumping in his ears. Damian didn't hear him. He could only think, lost in the mess of the thoughts inside his head.

Thoughts of how easy it could be to end this. Grab the edge of a batarang, dig it under the man's throat, press and press and press until the blood gushes out and paints the ground. Press until the hot blood saturates his gloves and the man's life seeps from the wound.

But each kick, each punch ends in a satisfying _crack_ of flesh against flesh, muscle against muscle, bone against bone. And with each sound his satisfaction grows, even as the tendons in his arm tremble from the repeated impact of his punches, even as the sweat drips down beneath his mask and his knuckles begin to bruise and reheal over and over. It grows and grows—the blotches of red on the ground, the thrill rushing in his veins.

He doesn't want to stop.

" _Robin_!"

This time, the sound can't be ignored. But Damian can't recognize it. Can't recognize it as his name. He's forced to stop when he's slammed against the wall, and when he's face to face with Dick, he can't recognize him either. There are flashes of red and black in Damian's vision, and he's struggling to escape the hands that are pinning him to the wall, and he's looking at Dick but he can't recognize him.

He's just a man in a batsuit.

Damian gets enough space to land a strike in the gut. It's all the opening he needs, but he's not concerned with Dick. He moves forward to the crumpled heap on the ground, surrounded in blood and broken teeth, unmoving. And he moves to attack again but an arm wraps around his neck.

"Stop!"

He was blind in his rage. He could hear the words demanding him to stop but any idea, any thoughts in his mind, couldn't process the idea of stopping. The rage was overwhelming, landsliding downwards on a clear path with no end, and even though Damian could hardly remember why he was angry, he couldn't stop. As Dick tries to hold him back, Damian can do nothing but react. He tries to shove Dick off of him, struggling against him.

He's fighting him. He doesn't even want to fight him. But he does. And he knows that when he elbows Dick in the stomach, that it must hurt by the way he staggers, but he doesn't care. He directs his rage back to the perp but Dick finally knocks him down full force. There's a moment of impact when Damian hits the ground, and the red in his vision begins to fade. Damian hears a voice.

"I'm sorry." And with that whisper, there's a moment of clarity. Damian can't move under Richard's weight, his forehead pressed against the ground. But in his head he imagines a face, a face that's almost sad.

"I'm not strong enough," the whisper continues.

And Damian is panicking because his mind is focused now but his body is moving on its own, struggling to escape. He's panicking but he just can't stop. What was happening? What did he do?

What was Richard apologizing for?

Leather presses against of the back and Damian knows. He knows even though his body continues to fight. He's expecting the needle prick the moment it comes and finally, his body begins to submit. The fight slowly dies from his body, his vision blurring over, until he is finally put to sleep.

* * *

He was in that place again.

He knew it. He could think to himself logically, put the pieces together, knew that this place was just a dream. A vision. A memory, perhaps even a real one. Regardless he wasn't supposed to be in this place.

But something was different.

It was like a veil had been lifted. This place was clear, clearer than it ever had before. The colors vivid, saturated even. The greens and yellows surrounding him.

The red eyes before him.

He had mistaken it for a bat. Mistaken it for a demon. But now it was clear that it was all and none of those things at once. Its red eyes that glowed seemed to look straight through him. And when its hand descended, giant and grey and ominous, for a moment Damian thought of the hand of God reaching Adam. But the hand struck right through Damian's chest, not giving him life, but allowing him to conquer death.

The hand of the devil slipped away, fading into shadows, and Damian awoke.

Awoke.

He opened his eyes. At any other time, his heart would have raced. The clarity of his vision was unlike any he had before. He was able to look into the eyes that had haunted him, and a face almost certainly appeared in the shadows…

But there was a grogginess over him. His body was the most sluggish it had been in months, maybe years. He tried to recall but couldn't remember the last moment before he was unconscious.

He glanced around the room with only his eyes, unable to gain feeling in his head and neck. It took a moment for the information to settle in his brain. He was in the Cave.

He was drugged. Had to be. His body would never allow him to feel like this. It would recover too quickly. Something was fighting against his abilities.

There were faint voices in the distance. He could hear them talking. He didn't hear the words, just their voices, but he knew the content well enough. They were talking about him.

His last memories slowly returned to him. The fighting. The blood. The singing.

 _I'm sorry_.

Bruce had to know now. The voices, their words were lost, but the concern was clear. Damian couldn't help but feel a little betrayed that Dick went running to his father.

 _I'm not strong enough_.

Damian moved to get up. He'll be damned twice if they were going to have a conversation about him without consulting him. His goal was to storm over there and break up their little gossip party, but the drugs still dragged him down. As he turned to move, he found his arm too heavy to lift, and ended up knocking off some equipment on the bedside table.

His vision blurred, the distinct clinks of the metal hitting the concrete distant in his mind. He felt himself being turned onto his back, the ceiling lights glaring down at him. Pennyworth's image emerged from the blurriness. He stood over Damian, his head blocking the overhead light of the hospital bed.

"Master Damian," he said, and his voice was calm and warm. Trying to comfort him. Trying to keep him from panicking. Damian simply stared back blankly, unable to gather or voice his thoughts. "You're back in the Cave. You've been asleep. Can you follow my finger?"

Damian could see Alfred perfectly but he didn't care about that. He could hear voices fading in and out of the background. He focused in on his father's, particularly angry.

"Two hours and he's already awake," he said. "Those tranquilizers last at _least_ six."

"Master Damian," Alfred said, standing in front of him. Damian looked back at him tiredly. The heavyset wrinkles in Alfred's face moved as he forced a gentle smile. "Focus, please."

"You didn't tell me. You stayed under _my_ roof and you didn't tell me—"

Pennyworth's finger swept across his vision. To the right. To the left. Up. Down.

Voices escalating in volume. Rising and rising.

"Bullshit, Bruce. You _love_ secrets—just not when they're being kept from you—"

Right. Down.

"You _promised_ me you could handle this. You _promised_ me you could look over him."

Right. Left.

"Get your head out of your ass. Not everything is about you!"

Up. Left.

Left.

Left.

Left.

" _I'm sitting right here_!" Damian snapped, and Bruce and Dick finally stopped arguing long enough to look at him.

"Oh, joy. You're cured," Pennyworth said dryly as Damian threw the sheets off of him and started recklessly climbing out of the hospital bed. He clumsily got to his feet, where the room swayed.

Still, he trudged forward. The room seemed to grow darker with each step. His sense of direction began to dim.

"Damian—"Bruce started.

"I don't want your help!" Damian snapped. "I don't want anyone's help!"

"The manor's that way," Dick said flatly.

Damian stopped in place and clenched his fists by his side, his blood boiling.

"Master Damian, I must urge you to sit back down for your own health. And then, and _only then_ , we might be able to talk this over _calmly and rationally_ ," Alfred said, glancing over at Dick and Bruce pointedly. Bruce stood, unmoving, while Dick crossed his arms.

"Talk _what_ over?" Damian demanded, pulling away when Pennyworth reached for his shoulder. Alfred seemed at a loss when Damian moved away, and for a moment, Damian's anger was quelled by guilt. Alfred was hardly the source of his anger. Still, he found himself backing away. "There's nothing to talk about."

"There's _plenty_ to talk about," Bruce said, his voice intimidatingly low. "Such as these secrets you've been keeping. These abilities, these behaviors of yours—"

"You can't stop me," Damian said at once.

"That's what we're afraid of," Pennyworth said, his voice so quiet it was hardly there at all.

"I want to hear it from you," Bruce said. "I want to listen to every single thing that happened tonight. I want to know every thought that was going through your mind, how it escalated, what you did—"

"I'm sure you can find it on one of your cameras somewhere," Damian said, annoyed.

"Damian," Dick said, his tone disapproving, and Damian couldn't believe that he was still taking _his_ side.

"You told him," Damian accused. Dick looked at him with weary eyes. The older vigilante clenched his jaw slightly, teetering between exhaustion and anger. He slowly shook his head to himself.

"What do you want from me?" he said, almost with a sigh. But there was something else in his voice, a subtle resonance that spoke of frustration. "To keep covering your tracks? To keep holding your secrets? To keep pretending that things will get better?"

"I want you to keep your promises."

" _No_!" Dick said, suddenly turning, and Damian couldn't remember the last time Dick directed so much rage at him. "You don't get to do that! You don't get to put me in that position and then decide what I _should_ and _shouldn't_ do!"

"This is getting out of hand," Alfred said, interceding. "We still have a patient standing."

"He'll be fine," Dick spat, throwing his hand up angrily. "He'll _always_ turn out fine. _Everything_ will be just fine. No pain, no consequences, _nothing_. Why else would he run around recklessly doing everything that he wants?"

"I'm not going to stand here while you insult me, even if it is _you_ ," Damian said, glaring. "I get _nothing_ that I want."

He didn't bother listening to them anymore. This time, he had control over his feelings, and he knew that if he stayed any longer, he'd say or do something he would regret. He left, even as Bruce called after him. He stormed up the staircase back to the manor the best he could. When he returned to his room, an anger overtook him. He swept an arm over his desk, knocking off some books and mementos. The sudden noise startled Alfred, who had been sitting on his pillow, and the cat bolted out of the room.

Damian made short work out of the rest of his room, smashing and kicking in his dresser, ripping the curtains off of his windows, slamming the door closed, shredding a pillow in half and tossing an end table into the wall. There was little left to break, and finally, Damian had to force himself to stop. He sat at the edge of his bed, still breathing heavily, clenching his fists to himself. And yet, as angry as he was, it was different than before. This time his mind felt aware of everything that was happening.

Damian listened to his own erratic breathing. He tried to calm himself, focusing on his breath, trying to slow it down. He didn't realize he had been shaking until that moment.

He's becoming uncontrollable.

He had known it for awhile but he never thought it would escalate this badly. The past few months he had been quick to anger. Even without anything to set him off, he was moody all of the time. He tried to think back on what happened. Tried to think why he had snapped. But no matter what reason he could come up with, he couldn't find a way to excuse it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. The anger began to rise again, but it was low and steady. He stormed to the door, pressing his body against it for emphasis.

"Leave," he snapped.

"I want to talk to you." It was his father.

"I don't want to talk to anyone."

"I'm not here to fight. I'm concerned."

Damian doubted that—the man struggled with empathy when he was upset. But his voice was low, and though it seemed a bit restrained, it was steady. Damian felt a moment of conflict, felt a twisting inside of his chest, but he couldn't bring himself to open the door. He was still angry and his room was a mess besides.

"Look. You don't want to talk. So just listen instead," Bruce continued. And even though Damian wouldn't acknowledge it—couldn't give his father the satisfaction of it—he stayed by the door, waiting. "There was a time where I was in a tough position. There was a time where I had to choose between my health and the life I had created for myself. In that time, you came to me, and you told me you were afraid. Damian, I'm telling you right now, I'm afraid."

Damian said nothing. His body was still.

"I don't know your side of the story—but the things I'm gathering make me very, very afraid. Damian… if you can't control these things that are happening to you… if these things are going to put your values at stake, your health at stake, I can't stand by and let that happen. The same way you couldn't stand by and let me to take the cowl again."

Damian lowered his gaze. His fingertips touched the door handle but he was stopped by Bruce's voice:

"Quit."

Damian continued to listen at the door, hearing Bruce's reluctant footsteps disappear down the hall.

* * *

His dreams changed. They changed back to that day, that day he had lost control.

He's kicking at that body. The blood is splattering on his gloves. And there's a thrill that races through him as he does it. The excitement bubbles up so far that he laughs as he does it, and it's so uncontrollable, so sudden, that it wracks his entire body.

As he's laughing, he turns, and he's faced with a sea of disappointed faces. His father. His mother. Pennyworth. Barbara. Tim. Jason.

Richard.

And he's standing there, in uniform, but the cowl's removed. Damian can see every bit of his face—the faint laugh lines, a reminder of the times when he used to joke around on the job, to the dark circles under his eyes from years of battling on and off insomnia. And every single bit of his face just speaks of how disappointed he is in Damian.

And even then, Damian's self control can't bite back the laughter.

Dick finally talks to him, has the nerve to ask why. And Damian doesn't understand, doesn't understand Dick's dedication to the criminals who made him the way he is, who made him an orphan, who drove him to wear the cape and cowl the same as the man before him.

So it makes him angry. He wipes away at the illusion of the man, punching and beating him until he bleeds with all the rest of the people Damian has hurt, until finally it hurts so much that Damian is forced awake.

* * *

Damian distanced himself from everyone else in the manor.

Pennyworth tried a few times to get him out to socialize. Bribed him with meals. Knocked on his door every so often. Damian even heard the heavier sound of his father's knocking, but it was always followed the heavy trail of steps that left in defeat. Damian didn't hear Dick once.

Dick was still going out on patrol. Damian would watch out the window at night, trying to spot the lights of the batmobile, but he was not going with him. Damian kept to himself, and when he and Dick crossed paths in the manor, Damian always kept his gaze to the ground and his mouth shut tight.

He was training in the Cave. He was still keeping up with his exercises and training, though he wasn't sure if he'd be allowed in the uniform ever again. He was making short work of a punching bag when he heard the light footsteps behind him. They stopped near him, waiting for Damian to acknowledge him. And though Damian had kept silent for so long, it was the first time Dick had ever tried to approach him since the big argument, and now he couldn't resist saying something.

"Did you come to yell at me some more?" Damian said, unable to hold back the bitterness in his tone. He threw another punch, especially hard. The clap it made was so loud that his heart jumped. He didn't think about how it looked. Was too angry to care. Dick visibly stiffened but didn't comment on it.

"No, I came to talk."

"I'll pass. I've had enough lectures in the past few days."

Damian pulled his arm back for another punch but was forced to halt when Dick held the bag in place. He finally stopped to look Dick square in the face, meeting with a stern gaze.

"No. We're talking. Now."

Damian shifts his weight to his other leg. He looks down at his hands, starting to idly rebandage them. "If you're trying to convince me to quit, you better stop there. Father's already tried."

"You're not the only one he wants to quit," he said quietly, his eyes darting to the side. Damian clenched his jaw.

"I could care less about your squabble with my father. Frankly, I'm angry at you both."

"There's a lot of different feelings being thrown in a lot of different directions," Dick said. "But I'm not here to argue. I'm not here to tell you to do anything. I just want to talk and I want you to listen."

Damian looked up at Dick with a flat expression. Dick rolled his head.

"Humor me."

Damian didn't see much of a choice in the matter so he sat on a nearby bench. Dick sat on a mat near him, his knees pulled up. Dick idly played with his hands, his gaze cast downwards.

"How much do you remember of that night?" he asked, his words conveying no particular emotion.

Damian took a deep breath. Truthfully, he remembered a lot. The events were a bit blurry, he had been in a total rage, but the parts he did remember were vivid in his mind. The smells, the sounds, the colors.

The words whispered in his ear, right before the needle had pierced his skin.

And for a moment, Damian's rage had quelled enough for him to feel a small sense of shame. Dick had been right—it _wasn't_ fair of Damian to have put him in that position. But Damian had to be on his guard—he didn't want to reveal too much. Didn't want to mention the adrenaline that had been running in his veins and his heart singing with thrill. Didn't want to mention how the sight of crimson seemed almost _beautiful_.

"It's blurry," Damian decided on saying, and he left it at that, hoping he had chosen the correct answer.

"I suppose it doesn't matter either way," Dick said, sighing a little. "Look. The first time I took the cowl, all those years ago back when we barely knew each other, it was because I knew there _had_ to be a Batman. Now I realize there's _always_ going to be a Batman. When Bruce hurt himself, I had to realize that. I guess after all of the craziness that has been happening these past few days, I just really want you to think about the future."

"You're not making any sense," Damian said flatly. Dick's brows furrowed, but he didn't seem annoyed. He seemed more like he was trying to figure out his words.

"Bruce and I aren't always going to be around," Dick said, and at that, Damian stopped. "There's going to be a point in time where we're not going to be able to bail you out."

Damian couldn't read people but something about Richard's wording felt odd. He could tell there was something more to this, something worrisome. He looked down at Dick but the older vigilante was still staring at the ground. "What do you mean by that?"

Dick shrugged. "There's a point where you're going to have to be able to take care of yourself, make your own decisions."

"I get that. What do you mean by you 'aren't always going to be around'?" Damian narrowed his eyes. "You sound like you're signing your own death sentence."

"I'm just preparing for all the possibilities."

Damian clenched his hands. He was being dodged. "This isn't about you. You're talking about Pennyworth, aren't you?"

Dick looked at Damian disapprovingly. Every mention of Pennyworth's declining health sent Richard and his father directly into a bad mood. "This isn't about him. It's about you and the things you have been doing." Dick took a deep breath, composing himself. "I don't plan on dying _after_ you. And if I'm on my deathbed, whether it's from a stray bullet or the hands of a crazed maniac or cancer or old age or _whatever_ , I need to be assured that you're not going to be doing some stupid shit."

In their line of business, facing their mortality was nothing new. But this conversation felt like it was coming out of left field.

"You're the legacy. When Bruce dies, when I die, we're going to being passing everything down onto you. I've been in this business the same age you started. I've seen people come and go. I've seen good people go down the wrong path. I've had friends disappear, become crippled or killed. I know the decisions that _I_ want you to make, but in the end, it's not up to me. It's up to you. And I want to make sure that when it's all said and over, whether I'm put in the ground or buried, that I'm _actually_ passing something down to you. I want to know that I haven't spent my entire life fighting this war just so it would never resolve. I know I won't see it happen in my lifetime—I've fucked up too many times, I couldn't carry the cowl properly, but at least give me the peace of mind that it will end _someday_."

"You're giving up too easily," Damian said, and fear was beginning to crawl its way into his chest.

"I'm not giving up. I just want to know that you're not either—that despite what happened, that we're still on the same side."

" _You don't know anything_!" Damian snapped, rising to his feet. Dick simply looked up at him, a subtle sense of curiosity hidden underneath his composed gaze, and Damian had to reel himself back in. But the anger was bubbling up from deep inside—fuelled by the accusations, the audacity of them. Hadn't he been doing the best he could? Hadn't he tried to figure out the truth? Hadn't he given up everything just to join their stupid little bat family?

Would anyone else have been able to do it better? The thoughts in his head. The compulsions that haunted him at night. It would be so easy to just rip apart every single one of their enemies, so there would never be another Joker or Deathstroke or Ra's al Ghul. He had the power, the discipline, the _drive_ to do it—but he resisted all this time, even as his body changed and his mind was racked with confusion and impulses of violence and destruction. How could anyone have handled it? And now he was expected to just _sit there_ and listen to these accusations that he was going down the wrong path? What would Dick know, what would anyone know, having never experienced it?

But of course, Dick _didn't_ know. And Damian knew he had to compose himself, to stop himself from saying something that Dick would misinterpret or take to heart.

"I don't need you hovering over my shoulder. I don't need you thinking that you're looking out for me. I don't need these stupid lectures. I am on your side and I'm not going to defend myself just to prove that to you," Damian said, and even though he was trying to settle down, he still couldn't strain the indignation from his tone. Dick looked at him as he ranted, his eyes unblinking, and his still expression seemed a bit solemn.

"There's another thing," Dick said finally. "I'm leaving."

Damian ran out of arguments.

They stayed there in silence, everything seeming to still. Damian's heartbeat seemed to slow as he took in this news. He swallowed.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm moving out. I need to be on my own again. I've spent too much time here. I need to spread my wings a little."

"What about Batman?"

"I haven't given that up."

"What about your cases with Father?"

"I already talked to him. We both decided we needed the space. We're just going to talk them over after patrol hours or meet online."

 _What about me_? Damian wanted to ask, but the words never came. Dick hadn't lived there for long, and yet, Damian already couldn't remember a time before. It felt like it had always been them. Together. And no matter how much time had passed, Damian still thought of it fairly often. Their breaths mingling in the frost. The snow dripping off of Dick's hair.

And now he tried to imagine a life without Dick around. Him, in this training room. Him, walking in the halls. Him, passed out on the couch.

"I'll see you on patrol," Dick said finally, and he got up and left.

* * *

The door was mocking him.

Dick had wasted no time leaving. Every time Damian passed Dick's old room, the closed door felt like a temptation. But Damian knew that if he opened that door, he'd find nothing. Nothing at all.

He found an excuse to go in when he caught Alfred in the midst of cleaning it. The door was open, inviting him in, and despite Damian's determination to keep himself distant from everyone, he found himself walking in anyways.

Alfred glanced at him but resumed his dusting. Damian leaned against the doorway, looking around the room. The casework that littered the room was gone. It was the cleanest Damian had seen the room in years and left behind was the furniture and nothing else. It highly resembled what it used to look like, back in the days before it had an occupant and was just a guest room.

It was as if time had passed and nothing had changed.

"He'll be back one day," Alfred said suddenly, as if he read right into Damian's mind. Damian's expression soured, though a faint heat rose to his face.

"It doesn't matter," Damian said, breaking his code of silence. "He can stay gone."

"Master Dick is a wanderer. He always has been. But he always finds his way back home," Alfred said simply.

Damian wondered if that could always be true.

"I'm sure that you will find your way as well," Alfred said, smiling sadly. Damian shrugged.

"Maybe in a perfect world."

"In a perfect world?" Alfred said. He chuckled a little. "No. In a perfect world Master Bruce would retire for good. Master Dick would give up the cowl and settle down with Miss Barbara. Master Jason would come back home. Master Tim would finally go back to school. You would take over Wayne Enterprises. As for me, I would finally get a good night's sleep."

Alfred stretched his back, his expression becoming subtly strained as he tried to work out the crick in his back. The edges of his gloves seemed to hang off of his thin wrists, and his hair was almost entirely gone. He made his way to a painting hanging on the wall, straightening it with practiced ease.

"Yes," he said quietly. "In a perfect world."

* * *

When Dick and Damian went on patrol, they left their squabbles behind them. They focused on their work. Every night, Damian felt that Dick was watching him, waiting to see if he'd lose control. More than that, Damian felt like he was waiting himself.

He was almost afraid to throw punches now. Whereas before, he'd heedlessly throw himself in, he was now reluctant to get into a fight. Perhaps that was a good thing, but he wondered how it could be when he felt so afraid and dishonest all of the time.

Lately, Dick would stop by Tim's safehouse. It started with one visit, but then it became several visits. Damian would wonder about the cases they were working on together but he often felt excluded, especially since he was usually instructed to wait outside. Damian knew the request was necessary—the visits never took long, and it didn't require two people, and someone had to watch the streets to make sure no one was spying. But still, it felt like he was being intentionally left out.

However, when Dick finally returned after one visit, he looked at Damian and said, "He wants to talk to you."

Damian blinked twice. Case or not, Drake _never_ wanted to talk to him.

So Damian slipped into the safehouse while Dick waited outside. The computer announced him, with his identity this time, as he walked in. Tim didn't move from his spot at the computer and waited by the desk.

"I don't have all night," Damian said finally, after Tim hadn't said anything.

"A 'hello' would have been nice," Tim said. But he wheeled away from his computer.

"What do you want?" Damian said, cutting to the chase.

"To talk."

Damian rolled his eyes. "Who gossiped?"

"Whether you like it or not, I'm family too. I know what everyone else knows."

Tim got up, grabbing his cowl and cape. "Come on," he said, gesturing for Damian to follow. Damian raised an eyebrow.

"You called me in just to lead me out? What game are you playing at?"

"We're taking a different exit. I mean, I trust Dick, but I'd rather be sure that we're alone. And the safehouse is too stuffy. Let's get some air."

When they took the exit, Damian was instantly greeted by a cold breeze. Damian followed Tim up the firescape of a nearby building and it wasn't until they had reached the top that Tim finally slowed to a stop. As Damian stood behind Tim at the edge of the building, the Gotham skyline greeted them.

"I never get sick of that," Tim said quietly, gazing at the moon overlooking the city. "I thought I was the only one. Jason actually took me to this place. It's not the highest building in Gotham but it's the only one that overlooks the park. When he stopped by, he immediately came here."

At that, Damian raised a brow. Tim made it sound like a recent discovery.

"He's still alive?" Damian said, puzzled. Tim shrugged.

"That was six months ago. I have no idea where he is now. He could be dead on foreign soil. Last I checked, he was running around in Hong Kong," Tim said. Damian's mind reeled at the news—no one had talked to Jason in years. At least, that's what he had believed, but it seemed like he wasn't the only one in the family that had his secrets. "I think the only reason he pops in is to let me know that he's still okay."

" _Is_ he okay?"

"That's a pretty subjective question. Has Jason ever really been okay?" Tim glanced over at Damian with a small smirk. "I'm surprised you asked."

Damian felt heat rise to his face. "Todd acted like a child, sure, but that doesn't mean I wish him dead."

Tim didn't tease any further. "It's a shame he isn't around more often. He'd probably be able to offer you better advice than any of us. He was restored by the Lazarus Pit too."

Damian let that sink in. "I don't think it's just the pit," he confessed.

"Neither do I," Tim said, looking him in the eye. His cape made a subtle noise as it rippled in the winds. Damian bristled defensively.

"I know what everyone is thinking. But I can control myself. I won't let anyone get hurt again."

"That's not what we're worried about. At least, that's not all of it." Tim sighed quietly. Changing the direction of their conversation, he said, "I'm not sure if this is really what _you_ want to do."

"I'm not afraid. I know there's a risk, but I know I can—"

"Enough of the Robin talk. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about _you_." At that, Damian went quiet. Tim elaborated, "I mean, you've spent your entire life fighting. You were born _to_ fight. Did you ever get a chance to stop and think about what else is out there? Were you ever curious about taking up an instrument or painting or, I don't know, _scrapbooking_? And I mean _actually_ investing yourself into it, not learning it because Talia wanted to give you another skill to master. There's a whole world of possibility out there," Tim said. When Damian didn't respond, Tim's gaze lowered. "I told myself ten years."

"Ten years?"

"Yeah. When I first started, I told myself I'd give ten years as a vigilante. Back then, it was ten years as Robin—but that lasted even less. Even back when I was a kid, I knew I didn't want to do this forever."

Damian found himself surprised by this news. He never thought of any life outside of crimefighting. He figured it was the same for all of the other crimefighters. "What are you going to do?"

Tim shrugged. "I don't know. My first thought was criminal justice. You know, becoming the 'world's greatest detective' and chasing all of my other kid-dreams. I even thought of studying law, going into criminal prosecution. But I've seen how the system works—Barbara can deal with it. I want no part of it. Who knows? Maybe I'll become a doctor to help people like my dad." At that, Tim's expression softened, and he nodded a little to himself. "Yeah. That might be good. I've had enough of hurting people."

It was quiet on the rooftops, save for the unfavorably cold winds. Damian thought about Tim's words. He suddenly realized he felt sad at the idea of Tim retiring. Out of all the people Damian worked with, he and Tim probably got along the least. Even so, in a way, they were family. The idea of Tim stopping only meant that he might slip away.

Just like everyone else.

"I can't stop you," Tim continued. "You'll follow your own path, like you always have. I guess I just hope you're making the smart decision. And I know you don't care for my opinion, but take it from someone who has an outside perspective: no one is meant to do this forever. It breaks down a person. People who start so young, like you and Bruce and Dick… it _will_ break you, just like it did for them."

Damian wasn't sure about that. "Father, maybe. But you can't say Richard is broken. You can't say that I will be either."

Tim seemed skeptical. "You think so?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Just some things I observed," Tim said, clenching his jaw. Like he wasn't sure if he should say it. Damian frowned.

"What, is there something that makes you disagree?"

"I don't know…" Tim shrugged and said quietly, "He just never seems to smile anymore."

No elaboration was needed.

* * *

When Damian was with his father, fighting crime was as serious as a business.

As the cowl passed on, Dick's smiles and jokes were a welcome relief. But as time went, as the seasons passed each year, as the job began to wear down and the burden of the cowl and cape became heavy, the jokes began to fade. The smiles became rare, like unexpected treasures, found in the oddest of times. Smiles that almost reminded Damian of falling snow.

Almost.

Because there was still something off about them. Perhaps it was the tired look in those blue eyes that never recaptured its mischievous sparkle, or the way his jawline had seemed to harden into a permanent frown over the years.

Sometimes a smile just felt forced.

They stood on a ledge, surveying the streets, and Damian caught himself staring at Dick, wondering if they could ever go back to the way things were. Back to a time before the arguments, the secrets, the controversies.

Sometimes Damian made a joke in hopes that it would spark a conversation in Richard. It never sounded the same, even when he tried using the same jokes Dick used to make. It always came out too biting, too sarcastic. Damian hated it, but it was the only thing that seemed to lighten the mood in those nights.

And as the nights progressed, things had definitely changed, Damian couldn't say it was all bad. Because at the end of night, when the sun was beginning to rise and their bodies ached with exhaustion, when they returned to the batcave and his eyelids were so heavy he couldn't even stay awake during the car ride—Dick always made it worth it.

Whether it was warning Damian from an oncoming attack, or sitting side by side on a rooftop or even when he did absolutely nothing... it was worth it.

Damian had fallen. Hard.

With him gone, he thinks about him everyday. It's hard not to. Every bit of the manor reminds him of Richard. Whenever Damian exited the manor it would bring back memories of how Richard would sometimes wait by the door in the morning to see Damian off on his way to school, even if the night before was rough.

And when Damian was in the training room, he thought about how their schedules always led them to be there at the same time. How they would talk to each other, how it was often the only time of day where Dick seemed relaxed. Even in the final days of him being there, that room was where he would joke around from time to time, that spark of mischief from his youth returning to his eye.

And now there was this. When it became late and the uniforms came on. The end of the day fell into night and they roamed the streets and Dick slipped back into his new persona. An identity that had become his own. The Batman. Any semblance of his old self slipped away, and despite this, Damian didn't falter.

Because this was the only time he could see him now. Because he had spent the entire day with thoughts utterly consumed with him. Because in a few hours, after the night was done, they would be parting ways and Damian would have to wait all over again. Every night when he returned home alone, Damian went to his room and thought of him. Thought about the days when Dick wished him a good day, how thoughtful that was. How kind. An endearing sort of quality that Damian knew that he could never replicate, because he wasn't a good person like Richard.

And Dick's voice would whisper old memories in his mind, his words echoing a comment he had made once in the training room, where he leaned in close and whispered it into Damian's ear. And as amusing as the comment had been, Damian's smile had been forced. He had been far too preoccupied with the sound of his own heartbeat racing as Dick leaned in close, his breath feathering against his ear, the bead of sweat rolling down his bare chest.

And even at night, when the fun faded and Dick ran out of jokes and kind words, Damian didn't care. He would think of how they had sat on a rooftop, and how they were sitting next to each other so closely that their knees almost touched. And his mind could slip to a place where they did. Where they were so close they could make contact, the distance between them nonexistent. A place where Damian could dare to touch him and not be afraid.

A place that only existed in his mind.

Whenever he retired to his bed, these were the types of thoughts that consumed him. They filled him with desire.

If only they could go back.

* * *

He felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

The puzzle pieces came together when he was in the shower, of all places. Patrol had been cancelled again and he was preparing his bedtime routine when his mind wandered, thinking of the growing frequency in which Dick was cancelling these patrol nights. Dick had always worked on outside cases of Batman and Robin—this was nothing new and probably why Damian hadn't thought of it sooner. As soon as he thought about the increasing visits to Tim's place and how odd that was, however, it suddenly made sense.

Dick was preparing for something and Damian had a feeling he knew what.

Damian quickly rinsed the shampoo from his hair and didn't bother with anything else. He quickly got dressed and ran for the Cave.

The batsuit and the rest of Dick's equipment was missing. That was nothing surprising. But Damian hurried to the computer, and while he had limited access, he could still see the cameras. He went into the city view—Dick's tracker was still on and Damian could quickly filter the cameras to his location.

He found Dick who was wandering carefully near an old train yard. It wasn't entirely clear what he was doing but Damian didn't bother to wait and find out. Perhaps he was assuming nothing—but he needed to be sure.

Damian threw on his Robin uniform and equipment, added a few weapons to his arsenal just in case, and took a motorcycle to the trainyard.

The cold air was freezing the tips of his still wet hair. He ignored it, speeding his way across the city in the hopes that he'd make decent time. Luckily the trainyard was on the outskirts of the city, not too far from the Cave, and Damian was able to make it while Dick was still there.

Dick was examining the inside of a train when Damian found him.

"Why are you here?" Dick asked, not even looking. Damian was nearly out of breath from running around and trying to find him in the expansive space, but he had some air left in him to spit out a few choice insults.

"You idiotic bastard," Damian snapped. Dick looked over his shoulder at him, giving him a dry expression—Damian knew it wasn't his best insult, but he was too frustrated to care. "You've been doing this all on your own."

"I don't understand how that makes me idiotic, but sure," Dick said, shrugging. "Go home, Robin."

"How do you expect me to leave? Do you really think you can take him on your own?"

"I don't think you understand the gravity of this situation and I'm not going to play catch-up with you. Go home. That's not a request, it's an order."

"Let me help you."

"Like I've tried to help you?" Dick challenged, turning to face him. At that, Damian shut his mouth. "Look. I know what I'm doing. I _want_ to be here. You, on the other hand, have _no_ business being here."

Suddenly, there was a noise—the sound of steel slicing through the air. Both Damian and Dick sensed it in time, side-stepping out of the way of its path. A throwing knife embedded itself in the snow where Dick's foot had been.

Damian's eyes followed the direction of the knife's path, immediately drawing the staff he had equipped for the night. The silhouette of a man stood atop of a train, his back against the moon. The shadows cast on his face did nothing to hide his identity—Damian knew it couldn't be anyone else but Deathstroke.

Sure enough, the Terminator hopped down, landing effortlessly, the snow kicking up in his path. Dick immediately stepped ahead, putting himself between Damian and Slade, one hand placed over a pouch on his belt. Waiting.

"So. The Bird finally becomes the Bat."

Damian tried to edge forward but Dick roughly grabbed him by his collar and pulled him back. Neither took their eyes off of Deathstroke, who began to circle them, the snow crunching beneath every heavy step.

Slade walked into the light, his one good eye piercing in their direction, before he fell in line with the shadows once again.

"I've said it once before and I'll say it again, Grayson: it was never a matter of _if_ I was going to kill you. It was always a matter of _when_." Deathstroke finally came to a stop. Damian didn't so much as breathe. A light breeze came through, blowing some snow off of the trains, swaying the frost-covered branches of long dead plants. "Truth be told, this is long overdue, but the timing feels right, doesn't it? You're no longer the kid in the mask. You've become the symbol, the legend."

"I didn't need a symbol in the past, Slade. And I don't need it now. But you're right: this _is_ long overdue."

"What's with the sidekick?" Deathstroke said suddenly, nodding his mask towards Damian. "I assumed you wanted to finish this one-on-one. A kid was never mentioned in those cheeky little notes you left at all of those scenes. Clever, by the way. Nothing grabs my attention faster than thwarting my hits."

Damian stiffened in place. The word _kid_ made him annoyed but it was the words that came before that truly bothered him. Dick had been planning this—and he must have been for quite awhile, it seemed, and his disappearances began to make sense. Damian felt a little wounded that he had been left out of it, it made him grip his bo a little tighter but he had to be careful to not let his emotions show. Regardless, he couldn't wait for the fight to start.

"We will finish this. Just you and me," Dick said. And at that, Damian couldn't resist the frown. Dick didn't acknowledge him, continuing, "I'll meet you in the building. No firearms. No tricks. No one else."

At that, Slade laughed, a low chuckle that seemed to reverberate inside his mask. "I said I got your message. I didn't say that I agreed."

Deathstroke's reflexes were fast. In a split second, the gun was drawn, and both Dick and Damian ducked into the open train. The heart-stopping sounds of bullets chased after them. Dick pulled out a smoke bomb, tossing it back outside. It went off and Damian's vest was tugged, pulling him in the direction of the end of the car. They escaped on the other side, the cold air greeting them once again.

Damian held his breath, careful not to make a sound. The smoke began to bleed through the train car and Damian looked carefully for any sign that Slade made it out.

Dick took off and Damian followed. The goal was to create some distance. They ducked around a corner where they were temporarily safe, where Dick immediately withdrew a batarang.

"Stay here," Dick said.

"I'm not letting you do this on your own."

"Please, just listen to me for once," Dick said, sounding exasperated. That or desperate, Damian couldn't be sure. "This isn't about pride. This isn't even about revenge. I just don't want you tangled in this. Let me take care of it."

Before Damian could respond, he saw something gleam in the shadows.

"Batman—"he started, but Dick noticed it too.

He threw the batarang, knocking the gun out of Slade's hands. But Deathstroke was quick, pulling the sword from the sheath on his back.

They both ducked down in time as a blade swung over their heads. Damian twisted out of the way, bringing up his staff in time. Steel clanged against steel. When Damian looked up, the one eyed mask was staring back.

Deathstroke pushed down on his sword, staggering Damian back a step. But Deathstroke was forced to turn his attention to Dick, who tossed another batarang. He turned, swinging his sword, knocking the batarang in its aerial path, before running for it, hiding himself in maze of shipping crates.

"He _wants_ us to chase after him—wait!" Dick said, reaching to grab Damian by the shoulder, but Damian moved out his grasp. He wasn't going to be idle any longer. It was time to finish the game and finish Slade.

He wasn't going to listen to Dick's excuses. He wasn't going to listen to Bruce's demands. He wasn't going to listen to Pennyworth talking about what should be and Tim talking about what could be. He had spent his entire life trying to appease everyone, from his parents to his allies, and it was time to finally prove that he was on their side and there was no one else better for the job.

Damian spotted movement in his peripherals. He made his way around the corner of a row of crates. The wind whistled as Deathstroke's sword cut through the air. Damian ducked backwards, quickly regaining his balance. Slade swung again but Damian dodged. He attacked with his staff but Slade quickly blocked it, moving quick enough to strike Damian hard on the hand with the hilt of his sword. Damian dropped his bo on instinct and it was the only opening Slade needed to continue his assault.

"My problem isn't you," Deathstroke said finally, kicking Damian back into a crate.

"It will be," Damian said, and he launched himself forward, grabbing a hold of Slade's wrist and twisting the blade out of his hand. The steel bounced once against the cold, hard ground but the Terminator didn't hesitate, elbowing Damian in the face and breaking out of his hold.

Damian ignored the blood dripping from his nose. He kicked the blade away, sending it sliding across the snow, but Deathstroke didn't bother chasing after it. He was a walking arsenal. He pulled a pair of daggers from his waist, swinging at Damian, who just barely dodged it.

"I know who you are. I haven't forgotten that much," Deathstroke said. The sound of his voice echoed in his mask, the sound low and muffled. In the gleam, Damian saw parts of his reflection. "Talia's boy."

They went toe to toe, Damian avoiding the attacks of his daggers, doing more dodging than attacking.

"You were even more of a child then, but when I took control of you, you were able to keep up with my lead. Your skills are impressive but you're erratic. Was chasing me to this area such a good idea?"

It wasn't. Damian was constantly being knocked against corners. The icy ground was slippery and hard to balance on. But Damian was confident he could handle it, even as the blood dripped down his face, even as Deathstroke seemed to always be two steps ahead.

"I didn't give two shits what happened to you—I was following your mother's orders. It was Grayson I was after. I turned you against him. But from the sounds of things, you don't need my help for that. Not so much of a Dynamic Duo, I presume?"

Damian managed to land a hit, but through the thick padding of Deathstroke's armor, it hardly affected him. He would need something stronger.

Deathstroke swiped quickly and Damian instinctively raised his hand in defense, hissing between his teeth as the blade cut through the glove, ripping his hand open.

"He's lying to you. This _is_ personal. This _is_ about revenge."

Before Deathstroke could swipe again with his daggers, a batarang swooped through the air, sticking itself into a weak point in Deathstroke's armor. Slade groaned but was hardly fazed, pulling it out as quickly as it had landed. He looked in the direction of the batarang, where Dick stood at the top of a metal shipping crate.

"You said it yourself: I'm the one you're after. So what are you waiting for?"

Deathstroke tossed the batarang aside and climbed upwards. Dick took off, ensuing a chase. Determined to not be left behind, Robin grabbed the abandoned sword and pursued them.

They made it back onto the open ground, fighting in the open—Deathstroke's daggers against Dick's escrima sticks. As Dick fought with his old weapons, there was something vaguely familiar about his movements.

As they fought, Deathstroke's pure physical strength was made apparent. But Dick moved seamlessly, stepping out of the way time after time, and the snowy terrain which had Damian slipping all over the place hardly seemed to bother them. Both were perfectly in control, perfectly balanced, matching blow for blow.

Damian wasn't sure if he was hesitating to intercept because the timing wasn't right or because he was afraid to interrupt this immaculate duel.

Damian had his hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of Deathstroke's sword, his eyes narrowed as he carefully watched their movements. His heart was in his throat, waiting for someone to slip.

And it finally happened. Deathstroke lost his footing and Dick quickly closed in. The escrima stick knocked against the side of Deathstroke's mask, followed by a blow from the next stick, and then a third hit. Deathstroke nearly staggered to his knees and he swung his dagger almost desperately.

The blow barely struck, cutting Dick from below his lip to his jaw. Dick flinched and that was all it took for Slade to make his comeback, knocking Dick aside and embedding his dagger into a weak spot on Dick's shoulder.

The dagger cut through the armor and Slade quickly yanked it back out. Damian's breath hitched as he watched the withdrawal splatter Richard's blood across the snow. Dick didn't show his pain, swinging his arm, but Slade pulled himself out of range from the attack.

As they distanced themselves, Slade spat, "You fight better than you used to. I respect that. But don't be fooled, Grayson: there is _no one_ on this planet that I hate more than you. You _will_ die tonight."

Dick didn't have a taunt in him, he was too busy regaining his breath, and Slade charged in.

Dick was too slow to block the first swipe, facing a shallow cut across the center of his chest, tearing through the emblem on the fabric. The second strike he had blocked but just barely. Damian realized now Dick was slipping—because while he fought greatly and bravely, his weapons could only bruise and break bones, and as an assassin with super strength and healing, Slade could go all night.

When there was space between them again, Damian charged. He swung the sword but Slade blocked it in time. They exchanged blows, a spark flying as the steel slid against steel. A piercing noise in the otherwise quiet, dark night. Damian's breath was caught in his throat, his heart beating quicker and quicker.

But just as the escrima sticks were familiar in Dick's hands, the sword was familiar in Damian's. And as his hands adjusted around the hilt, his fingers remembering the proper hold, he was dragged back into a time long before any of this. Back in a time when he had stood side by side with his mother in a courtyard, as early as he could remember.

A time where steel in his hands felt as natural as breathing. A time where there was nothing to be afraid of.

He was slipping into the offensive, his movements quicker and precise. The blade cut across Slade's shoulder, blood staining the sword, and Damian swung again, until finally Slade staggered to one knee.

And that was when Damian knew he had him.

He raised the sword, his blood racing, ready to strike.

" _No_!"

Before Damian could respond, Dick grabbed his wrist, the sword falling from his hands. He didn't have a chance to voice his betrayal—he struggled on instinct, both of them tumbling to the ground. As they fell, Damian hit his head particularly hard on the ground, flashes of red soaring across his vision.

Dick was getting up but Deathstroke was already back on his feet, striding towards them. He kicked Dick over as he tried to stand. Dick tried to roll out of the way, tried to create some distance to get back up, but Slade kicked him again.

"Which knee was it that you broke again? The one all those years ago, back when you went by that ridiculous name," Slade said, sounding haggard, so unlike his usual self. With a growl, he said, "Was it _this_ one?"

Dick yelled out in pain as Slade stomped down on his right knee.

Damian willed himself up, even though every bit of him was weak. He hadn't realized how tired he had been until that moment, how short his breath and sweaty his brow. His nose and hand had healed for the most part but his exhaustion could not be quickly healed. He charged forward, Deathstroke turning away from Dick to face his younger opponent. The combat did not last long before Slade had Damian in a hold.

Damian struggled to get out but the assassin did not move, eyeing Damian's wrist that he had pinned.

Deathstroke tilted his head, eyeing the healed hand for a moment longer.

"That's new," he said, and Damian cried out as Slade drove his dagger in, stabbing in the same tender spot. The blood spilled forth all over again and Damian clenched his hand instinctively but couldn't move it. He reached to pry the assassin's fingers from the knife but Deathstroke twisted his wrist, locking him in place. It was an easy hold, one that Damian might have been able to pull out of if he wasn't in pain. "Did you always have that ability or is Batman training super soldiers now?"

Damian struggled against the grip. Tried to block out the pain. But he could feel his hand trembling, trembling to heal but unable to with the knife blocking its path, and it seemed to be cutting and regrowing over and over… the result was this hot white pain, and if Damian could just pull out that knife…

"He's a good mentor, isn't he?" Deathstroke said, speaking lowly. "I bet he fills your head with all sorts of lovely ideas—the same ones he used to brainwash my daughter. Bet he told you that you're a _hero_ , that deep down you're _truly_ good. But you're not good, are you kid?"

" _Do you ever shut up_?" Damian growled, trying to wrench his arm away, but Slade responded by pulling the wrist tighter.

"Don't worry. I'm getting to a point," he said. "I used to think I was good. I thought I was doing my country a service, that I was fighting the good fight to protect my homeland. And when they stuck me with all those chemicals, I knew it might kill me, but I wanted to do the _right thing_. I don't think I was much different than your age when I was properly enlightened. See, there's no such thing as a _good soldier_ , kid."

Damian finally broke the hold, twisting his arm away. He wondered for a moment if he had fought for it or if Deathstroke had just let him go. Damian immediately pulled out the knife, and even though it hurt like hell, he was relieved to finally have it out of his body. The hand was already beginning to heal properly but Damian held his hand together to make certain it would fuse together correctly.

As he backed away, his blood trailing after him, Deathstroke stayed in place and watched him, and yet that black and copper mask seemed to follow Damian as he moved. "You're an assassin. You were bred for it. You were trained for it. It runs in your blood. What's the point of fighting where there is no _end_? Wouldn't it be simply easier to slit the throats of your enemies and bask in the victory than to delay the inevitable? And for what, this code of ethics that _they've_ instilled into you? Those are _their_ ideals, what are yours?"

He was just talking to distract him. Damian knew that. It was all just a ploy. And yet, with every word spoken, it seemed to dig deeper and deeper into Damian. He thought about the blood, the singing, the adrenaline. He thought about his mother's face. He thought about his visions. And deep down, he knew these words only bothered him because it all _made sense_.

There was a flicker of shadow in the background. Damian made sure not to make any reaction, continuing to stare Slade down, unblinking.

"Think of what you could accomplish. Think of what—"

The shadow in the corner staggered forward, forcing a leap and landing on top of Deathstroke.

"You really don't shut up," Dick growled.

Deathstroke struggled as Batman hung on his back, his arm wrapped tightly around his neck. The weapons fell to the ground as Slade desperately tried to pry Dick's arm off of him. Damian immediately reached for a batarang to throw but he couldn't get good aim as Deathstroke twisted around, trying to throw Dick off of him. Dick grabbed hold of the mask, pulling it upwards. Slade's head craned back, the skin of his throat exposed.

"I never brainwashed Rose, Slade. That was _you_. You drove her to turn insane. I gave her an option to follow her own path—and she made her choice."

As Dick held on, he reached into his utility belt.

"I told you I would repay you for what you did to Blüdhaven. I think we've played these games long enough. It's time to finally follow up on that promise."

Something shone in the light. Damian's eyes widened.

"Wait—"he started, but Dick already made his move.

The unfamiliar needle sunk into Slade's neck.

Deathstroke fought for a moment longer, his struggle coming to a slow, until he finally collapsed to his knees. His strength was weakening and Damian thought, with a sense of horror, that that was it. That Dick had poisoned Slade Wilson.

But while the assassin was definitely stunned, he was well and alive. Dick finally released him from his hold, stepping away, never once tearing away his gaze from his work. Deathstroke looked over at Dick, his fingers touching the spot that Dick had punctured.

"What have you done to me?"

"Something to counter your abilities. Your strength is gone. Your healing factor is blocked. You're going to prison, Deathstroke."

The assassin looked up, the light of mask gleaming in the light. "You think I'll give in that easily?"

In one quick movement, Slade reached for a dagger that had been sitting on his belt. Damian stepped over to stop him but all he saw was a quick flash of silver followed by a shooting pain in his throat. Slade had done the unpredictable, throwing the dagger in his direction instead of going after Dick. As Damian crumbled to the floor, his body experienced a turmoil of reactions. Somewhere, somehow, the back of his mind remembered the dagger that had stabbed his hand. The healing and rehealing, over and over again, and there he remembered to pull the knife out that had punctured his throat.

But he couldn't breathe. He inhaled but it never reached him, escaping through the gash in neck. His body was bleeding out. And as he grasped his throat, he wondered if this was it. If this was going to be the wound that didn't heal.

Everything felt like slow motion but it must have happened so quick. Slade took off and Dick stood there between them, watching him go. And Damian wondered if Dick had been right by what he had said earlier, in what seemed so long ago, that having a _hotheaded kid hanging by his heels_ was really the last thing he needed.

And maybe it was. But Dick turned back, rushing to his side, crouching beside him. He placed his hand tightly over Damian's throat, closing over the wound, containing the blood and air that seemed so desperate to be released.

"You're going to be okay," Dick said, but Damian wasn't sure if he was telling the truth or trying to reassure him before he died. He really couldn't tell. "Your body will heal. Just hang on."

By all reason, that knife should have immediately killed him. But even so, Damian didn't feel that it would heal because this was all too familiar.

The tunnel vision. The shimmering edge. The crippling fear shooting through his body as he struggled for air.

That deep, deep coldness in his body.

Dick looked down at him, never once tearing away his gaze. He was saying something but Damian could no longer hear him. Everything was beginning to fade. His heart was beginning to slow.

Damian reached upwards towards Dick's cowl because a part of him, deep inside, knew that if this was it—if he was going to die right here—the last thing he wanted to see was that damned mask. But his fingers were clumsy, crudely smearing blood over the side of the cowl and on Dick's lips. But Dick seemed to understand, and with his free hand, he pulled back the cowl.

He really had aged.

But the warmth slowly returned. And when Damian inhaled once again, this time, the air stayed. His body slowly rebuilt itself. The bleeding stopped. His throat healed. He was alive.

Dick removed his hand from Damian's throat, falling back until he was sitting. He ran his clean hand through his hair, sighing softly.

"I'm sorry," Damian said finally. "I should have listened. I should have stayed out of the way."

"You scared me. For a second, I really thought—"

"I did too," Damian said, and they sat for a few moments longer trying to catch their breaths, until that was all Damian could hear.

Their breaths, in slow steady unison.

* * *

They had captured him in the end.

Before they had took off on their mission, Dick had been sure to call some allies in the Justice League to act on standby. After he was certain Damian was fine, he contacted them to follow the trail. The effects of the drug that Dick had used on Slade had worn off, but only after he had been captured.

Nothing was certain. He could escape again. But for now, they had won.

Dick never brought up what happened to Damian. Damian didn't say anything either. But even so, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding between them. While their conversations would simply never lead to the deeper conversations, Damian's previous uncertainties had faded away. Despite what he had said in the past, Dick truly did want him around. For Damian, that was enough.

The public was told of the true connection between Slade and the commissioner's murder, but to avoid being accused of pinning the crime, Batman chose not have his name associated with the capture. The public continued to spurn Batman's name, though at least in the case of the commissioner, they had no choice but to accept Batman as innocent. News of Deathstroke's true capturer did, however, circle amongst vigilantes. Bruce even confronted Damian about it, breaking the silence between them.

Damian had already assumed that Tim found out. But when they had went to visit the safehouse together per his request, Tim did not seem happy.

"You used that formula, didn't you?" Tim said, frowning. His gaze was directed at Dick. "You used it on Deathstroke."

Damian glanced at Tim, surprised. Not once did they ever mention the formula out loud, even Damian didn't completely understand the history behind it—he had just assumed that the Justice League had given it to Dick for his fight against Deathstroke. But Dick was decidedly silent and that raised Damian's suspicions.

"What do you know about it?"

Tim didn't acknowledge Damian's question. He was too busy staring Dick down. "That formula was highly experimental. You have no idea what you were messing around with. You… you could have _killed_ him."

"It wouldn't have. I made sure of that. The research you gathered—"

"It was _still_ in the experimental stage. God, if I knew it was foolproof, I would have given it to you right away. But now that formula is lost. How do you expect it to serve its purpose now?"

"Let's talk about this later," Dick said. Tim took a step back, looking at Dick incredulously.

"You son of a bitch," Tim breathed. "Do you have any idea what I had to do to get that formula? The favors I had to pull? The people I had to ask?" Tim swallowed before confessing, "The information I had to _steal_? And you threw it away on—on _this_? On _him_?"

"I needed to stop him," Dick said, and those words gave away guilt to whatever crime he was being accused of. Tim clenched his jaw, angry. Even Damian found himself lowering his gaze. The Family was full of inner conflicts, but Damian had never once seen this type of negative energy between Dick and Tim.

"That's not what that formula was for. That's not what I created it for."

"He destroyed Blüdhaven." Dick slowly shook his head to himself. "A hundred thousand people— _gone_ , in just an instant."

"God, you really had me fooled!" Tim said, raising his voice, every word a hiss between his teeth. It was the biggest reaction Damian had seen from Tim in years, who normally managed to keep himself composed and rationale. "I thought you really could have brought a change to Gotham. I thought that when you put the cowl on, things would be different. But you're _just like him_. All secrets, all lies, using your own family and friends like pawns just to do what you think is right."

"He _did_ do the right thing," Damian said, interfering. He wasn't sure how much truth there was to his words—but he believed, deep down, that no matter what distance there was between them, that Batman and Robin were _still_ partners. And with that in mind, he could be nothing but loyal. "Deathstroke was stopped. The formula did its work."

At that, Tim stopped and looked at Damian. He looked almost dumbfounded, glancing back and forth between Dick and Damian before shaking his head in disbelief.

"He doesn't know, does he?" Tim said, looking at Dick. Now it was Damian's turn to be confused.

"I didn't know what?"

"You _lied_ to me," Tim said, jabbing his finger in Dick's direction.

"Tim," Dick said, his voice an octave lower, almost like a warning.

But Tim ignored the disapproving look. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair.

"Holy shit," he breathed, looking at Dick hopelessly. "You _used_ me."

"I don't understand what's going on," Damian said, growing impatient. And while he truly didn't, he was certain that whatever it was, it wasn't good. "What am I supposed to know?"

"Enough," Dick said, cutting into the conversation. "It doesn't need to be said. It—"

"No," Damian interrupted, scowling. He stared face-to-face with Dick, his gaze defiant. "I want to know."

"That formula was meant to stop abilities. _Your_ abilities," Tim said. Damian stared, unblinking. Tim shrugged a little to himself, backing away. "At least, that's what I was told, but who knows what the truth is now? Either he was lying to me, trying to get this formula so he could stop Deathstroke, or he was lying to you, and making this formula without your permission. Regardless..." Tim stopped and glared at Dick. "It's a pretty shitty thing to do."

For once, Damian was speechless. The whole world seemed to come to a still, where nothing was certain and nothing was true and nothing was sacred. Damian could only be sure of the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the dreadful feeling of being betrayed, and Damian couldn't remember the last time a betrayal hurt this much—perhaps not since all of those years ago, on that fateful day that had changed everything. The day that his mother had a sword driven through his core.

He had to wonder why it felt this way. At first he thought it was the secrecy—but more than secrecy, it was distrust.

The distrust had stemmed from the day when Damian had lost control. At first it was Damian who thought Dick was the one who couldn't be trusted, when he had spilled their years' long secrets to Bruce, creating a deep rift in the relationship between Damian and his father.

But it wasn't Dick's secrets that had caused the problem. They were Damian's.

And after that, it had been nothing but more and more secrets. Dick disappearing on his own, planning to fight Slade on his own. Damian thought about the fight with Slade. He had raised his sword. He was going to finish Slade. But Dick had tackled him down—he didn't trust Damian to strike to wound and not kill. He didn't trust him the point that he had wounded his knee and nearly killed them both in an attempt to stop Damian from committing a horrible act.

At that, Damian had to question himself. If that blade had fell… if he had struck Slade… would the man have lived? He thought about the familiarity of the sword in his hands. He thought about the thrill he felt at the robber he had assaulted. He thought about his visions.

Damian realized that Dick couldn't trust him. Worse, that he shouldn't trust him.

Now there was the case of this formula that Dick had been creating behind Damian's back and it felt like the definitive proof of all of the distrust that had been growing for so long. And even though Damian realized it, could understand it, he didn't want to believe it.

The dread was soon followed by denial. Damian didn't want to believe that Dick was capable of that. He didn't want to believe that all of these years that Dick, who was always honest and kind, who abhorred it whenever Bruce would lie to him, who was so angry at Barbara's betrayal that he hadn't had a real conversation with her in years, would suddenly _lie_ to him. He didn't want to believe that their partnership had sunk this low.

He didn't want to believe that it was all his fault.

"Is it true?" Damian asked, turning towards him. Dick was eerily quiet. When he turned his head away, Damian had his answer.

"Damian—"Tim started, when Damian began to storm away.

"Leave me alone," Damian snapped, and he left.

When he exited the safehouse, he was vaguely aware of someone following him—though the movements were staggered and slow. But he didn't once look back, escaping into the world above, a sudden and powerful gust grasping him when he made it to the surface. The coldness seemed to strike right through him but he kept moving, even as the air flurried around him, capturing snow in its path and billowing it around in a whirlwind of white. He thought he heard a voice calling him, but the sound was lost in the winds that whistled in his ears and blew about his hood.

Suddenly he was stopped, and when Damian looked back, the shadows of the cowl looked almost terrifying. The faint streetlights did little to illuminate the streets, and many of them shook and flickered in the blizzard.

"I'm sorry," Dick said. He didn't bother to disguise his voice and it was the first time Damian had heard his _real_ voice in what felt like forever.

"What were you using it for? Were you going to give it to me without telling me? Give me the truth," Damian said, his voice nearly lost in the howl of the winds.

Dick looked torn. "Would it make any difference?"

It wouldn't, Damian decided. Regardless of Dick's intentions, Damian felt that things would never be the same, that this pain would never ebb. Damian didn't want to look at Dick, every second he did he felt himself growing weaker, so he tore his gaze away. His body seemed to want to move as well but Dick's hand moved to his shoulder, pulling him in a little closer, and Damian felt weak all over again.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and they were so close that their breaths intermingled, white frost in the air. Just like that day. "It was wrong. But don't leave, not like this."

Damian's resolve wavered. The last thing he wanted to do was leave. The hand on his shoulder was comforting and Dick's words felt so heartfelt, so sincere, like he really _needed_ Damian there. That he needed Damian period. And as much as Damian wanted to punch Dick in the face, it was just as tempting to kiss him.

He didn't want to leave but he also felt no choice.

"I have to go," Damian decided, shrugging off Dick's hand. And Damian felt instant regret when he saw the defeated look pass Dick's expression.

"At least let me take you home," Dick called after him as Damian began to walk away. But Damian didn't want to do that, because his heart was pounding loud inside of his chest, and he was afraid of what he might do if he allowed it.

His heart was pounding.

A familiar anger began to rise through him. Heat rising in his face, feeling hurt, indignation, betrayal. Self-loathing. He clenched his fists by his sides, trying to resist. Trying to pull back his fury, trying to calm himself down. But it was waiting, building higher and higher, deeper and deeper, for the right moment to unleash.

And when Dick grabbed him by the shoulder again, it did.

There was a loud sound, followed by silence, and even the winds seemed to be in shock over what Damian had done.

The anger disappeared at once, overtaken by shock and regret.

The blood began to spill. As each droplet fell, it stained the snow, saturating each snowflake, bleeding into the next, until the red seemed much larger than what it was. And it was like this with each drop that fell, puddling the ground, the red spreading its territory across the white.

Dick touched his broken nose, glancing at the blood on his hand once before looking back up at Damian.

Damian wanted to apologize. He did. But his mouth was dry. Damian began to back away.

"It's okay. You didn't mean to."

No, that was wrong. He did want to. He was so angry. Everything inside of him was so angry. So red. And Dick couldn't have truly believed that anyways—he was just saying that, just _lying_ , as to comfort Damian. To protect him. Because Dick could see Damian's fear and regret.

That only scared Damian more.

"It's okay," Dick said, limping forward a step. But the red kept falling.

He turned to leave but Dick caught him by the wrist.

"Damian," he said, the forbidden name slipping from his tongue. Damian pulled away from his grasp and ran.

Damian didn't stop once to see if Dick was following him. He ran, thinking of all the things he wished he could change. These powers of his, which made him so strong, so invulnerable, and yet he still felt so weak. He had no control over them, no control over himself, no control over anything.

He finally slowed to a stop when he ran out of breath. He collapsed to his knees in the snow and panted.

The cold began to creep to his knees. The frosty air made it hard to catch his breath so he tried to still his breathing. As he began to regain his senses, the adrenaline beginning to ebb, he glanced down at the wrist Dick had grabbed. Blood that wasn't his own greeted him, stained in the bracer.

The frustration returned. He was angry, but he wasn't sure at who. He was sad, but he wasn't sure why. He started digging into the snow, just so he could claw at something. He ripped into the blankets, chunks of powder and ice being ripped apart. Digging further and further, towards nothing at all, sinking his hands closer to the earth until he started digging that apart too.

And the entire time, he could hear the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. His mind was drowning in thoughts and he was lost to them, unable to process and view his own lunacy, all his body did was dig and all his mind did was think.

As the snow flew and the frosted earth began to crumble beneath Damian's destruction, Damian wondered. Wondered if he could go back in time when he was content with being Robin. Wondered if Batman and Robin would ever be the same again. Wondered how many times he would be hurt or hurt others until it stopped.

Of the few things he knew, he was certain that time would pass. That seasons change. That snow falls and melts. That flowers bloom and die. That people come and go. That secrets hide and break. That love can turn to hate and hate can turn to love.

And as he dug until his gloves began to fray and his fingers bruised and rehealed over and over again, he wondered what would happen after this long, cold winter transitioned into spring. Could he still be the same?

Or would he change into something new?


	6. Last Winter

**A/N** : Please be mindful of the warnings from the prologue, a lot of them come into play in this chapter.

* * *

Last Winter

* * *

Damian turned his head lazily on his pillow. His bed hugged to the wall and the window sat next to him, covered in frost. The sun had begun to rise and reflecting in the glass was the palest of blues.

He ran his finger along the glass of the window, the cold condensation greeting his hand. His finger circled patterns into the window, mindlessly, creating nothing at all.

As the frost wiped away at his fingertips, Damian gazed through the clarity, spotting the first snowfall of the season. According to the forecast, it was the first of many days to come. In the yard a tree stood with its naked branches. Dark and barren, it waited for spring.

Damian sighed, his breath fogging up the glass, and the tree was gone.

* * *

His father had stopped watching over them, still bitter. But from time to time, he made comments—either correcting or complimenting things he had heard about their solved cases. It had been a year. Damian was sure that his father had given up but Richard insisted otherwise.

"He'll be back eventually. The cowl always calls to him in the end," he had said.

But for now, Bruce would be out of the picture. And for tonight, Damian needed that.

He swung back his arm, and when the punch delivered, the blood splatter dirtied the snow. He kept punching, the punches losing focus, sometimes never striking their target at all, and with each punch, Damian's breath felt shorter. His vision grew hazy. Until finally, a hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

"That's enough."

Damian had to be pried away from the perp. The bloody mess that was a person should have shamed him. Even while knowing the extent of the man's crimes, it didn't make what Damian was doing any better. The anger was boiling, and it didn't matter who it was that he was punching, he wanted more. He wanted blood but Richard dragged him away. For a moment, Damian resisted, shrugging off Dick's hand.

"Look at him: he's done. He's not going to hurt anyone," Dick said, calmly. His voice a little more stern, he gave Damian a reminder, "Remember why you do this."

Damian willed himself to stand back, his body shaking, as he watched Dick call for GCPD. As he called for them, Dick knelt next to the enemy, and wiped away the blood that was seeping from a cut on his brow, as if he were a victim. As if apologizing.

And perhaps he was.

* * *

They sat near the pier. The rivers leading into Gotham Bay were frozen over. It was beautiful, in a way, but Damian remembered hearing a story of someone falling through the ice a week prior, and all he could think about was slipping in. The coldness overtaking him. The wall of ice blocking his way out until his breath dissipated and the water filled his lungs. And then, and maybe then, he'd find a hurt too overwhelming for him to handle.

Damian glanced down at the blood on his hands. The snow hadn't washed it away.

"I didn't feel bad," Damian finally said, the words feeling like a deep confession.

Dick didn't say anything.

"Father caught wind of our last arrest. I think he suspects what I've been doing. He told me I haven't exercised enough control."

"Maybe," Dick said. "But you've tried to control it. It didn't work. Your father thinks it can be controlled because _he_ was always controlling himself. I think you need to find a way to release it."

It was a conversation they had many times in the last year and it did nothing to comfort Damian. He suspected it did nothing to comfort Dick either. He thought about the way Dick often looked at him. He allowed Damian to release his aggression on the perps as he pleased, pulling him away whenever Dick felt that it had gone too far, and afterwards, Dick always looked at him with the same expression. An expression that felt like worry, disappointment, weariness, revulsion—or perhaps nothing at all, perhaps only reflecting what Damian projected onto him.

Lately, Damian felt like every time he went off on criminal, Dick was either pulling him off too early or Damian's rage went on too long. He was becoming increasingly agitated all of the time. He didn't feel right unless he was breaking something. When he committed violence, joy overcame him. The thrill came to life. Afterwards, however, it didn't feel like enough. It left him feeling empty or, even worse, angry again. Even now, after a long day of releasing his aggression, Damian felt sullen and fatigued.

"I'll be there to pull you back when you go too far."

"What if you're not there?" Damian asked, his mouth feeling dry.

"I don't know," Dick said quietly.

Damian glanced down, noticing the space between his hand and Dick's. He thought of the way his heart soared as they chased down criminals and the violence he had committed, and that mere memory seemed to reignite a livelihood inside of him, and he thought of how great it would be to close the distance. To grab Dick's hand and kiss him.

But then he thought of the way Dick had looked at him when he pulled him away and the impulse finally disappeared into shame.

* * *

It was a slow night.

There was a blizzard in Gotham the night prior. People were locked in their houses—both willingly and unwillingly. Batman and Robin were less searching for criminals, because there were none to chase, and more searching for people to assist.

Helping people who were trapped inside their houses, assisting those who dared to drive in the streets and spun out, clearing vents. It was all grunt work, but necessary to saving lives in Gotham. It was the first time in months, maybe years, that people's expressions seemed to look at their arrival with hope and relief in place of fear.

Even so, the entire time, Damian felt anxious. He needed to fight someone. He had been waiting all day, waiting for something to get his heart racing, wanting to relieve this itch. Wanting to unleash what had been clawing its way inside of him all day. He grew increasingly agitated and short. He argued with Dick over every word he said. He wasn't even angry at Dick. He was just _angry_.

But Dick let him argue. He started provoking him on what Damian knew must have been on purpose. He got him to argue so he could unleash his negative energy, enduring even as Damian spat out biting words that he did not wish to say. Words that cut too far. Hurt too much. But Dick accepted the words, allowed Damian to say them, and did not reprimand or begrudge him for it.

Damian wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved.

* * *

Dick had touched him affectionately.

It wasn't anything incredibly shocking or profound. Damian's hood just slipped off, and snowflakes had started to gather in his hair, and Dick had ruffled his hair, each snowflake brushing off in the process, in an almost teasing way that reminded Damian of days when he was just a boy. It hardly even felt like anything but it quickened his heartbeat in a way that it awoke something that had been slumbering inside of him.

Damian needed his time on patrol. On the days spent at home, he was constantly moving around. Since graduating, he had nothing to preoccupy himself during the day, and he had been spending ridiculous amounts of time in the training room. He should have been packing on more muscle, but he hardly rested and wasn't eating or sleeping right and just seemed to be losing weight. It wasn't Damian's intentions to get stronger anyways—he just needed to find release for the energy inside of him. When he was sitting, he felt agitated. When he laid in bed, he couldn't sleep. Patrol was the only time he felt relaxed because he could run as fast as he wanted, leap as far as he wanted, punch and kick as hard as he wanted.

But in truth, it was moments like that where Damian began to dread patrol. In more ways than just anger, Damian found his emotions slipping out of his range of control. He was moody all of the time but on patrol, he was afraid he would vent too much. Afraid he would reveal too much. It was almost worth the pain of keeping everything contained.

It's difficult because Richard seemed more distant than ever. Damian couldn't remember the last time he had seen his real face. Heard his real voice. They only ever saw each other on patrol, it seemed like. Richard came to the cave every night but never ventured inside of the manor, coming for the suit, the tools and the computer alone.

Even during the holidays he had been absent—the Wayne manor had just been a small party of four, including the cat. Tim had the excuse of being too busy, working with the Titans even on holiday, and Barbara stopped by to deliver some cards but didn't stay for the same excuses as the years prior, even though her eyes seemed to shine with a tenderness when Pennyworth offered dessert.

It was as if Dick no longer existed as his own person. It was as if he was only Batman, through and through, and there was no evidence to the contrary.

Damian wanted to hold on tighter. If everything became lost to him, if the reins on his life slipped from his grasp—he wanted Richard to be the one thing he could keep with him. But he was afraid of his heightened emotions—with his anger already so openly exposed, he was afraid the truth of the rest of his feelings would come into the light, and the pining only made his feelings that much more unbearable. While Damian could accept Dick's long silences and dark gazes whenever he lashed out, he couldn't even imagine the face that waited for him if he made his other feelings apparent. His attraction was something that he had kept secret for years, something he intended to take with him to the grave—if he ever got there.

More often than not, Damian found himself reflecting on the past, wishing he could go back to the days before Batman and Robin. Before the cowl had taken its toll. To the days where Damian felt nothing at all.

* * *

They met Barbara on the roof to exchange files. Their camaraderie was as stiff as ever, each conversation awkward and tense, but since she became commissioner it had been easier to work with the police. However, in the past year, the GCPD had become the least of their concerns.

"You're making some serious enemies," Barbara said, wiping the melted water droplets off of her glasses.

Damian didn't have to ask what she meant. Just on the way there, they had come across some graffiti painted onto a building. It had been the Batman symbol, crossed out, with some choice expletives written on it. Dick didn't acknowledge it, didn't even say a word, and he didn't have to. Because when Damian looked at it, he knew it wasn't aimed at Batman. It was aimed at him.

"I can't keep covering you two," Barbara said. Her eyes were cold. "Every criminal you turn in has been beaten half to death. The first few times, I could accept the excuses you gave me. But now, it's every case. You two are being reckless, and quite frankly, you're scaring the general public."

Damian said nothing. Dick spoke for him, "We're doing our jobs."

"You can do it better than this. I know you can. Those petty criminals you're turning in shouldn't require that much of a _beating_ to subdue them. I won't deny the crime rates have been low but only because people are _terrified_." Barbara looked at them long and hard before sighing. Her tone lowering, she said, "Don't put me in this position. Don't make me feel like I'm making a mistake by letting you two run loose."

When she handed over her files and left for the night, Damian looked over at Dick. "What should we do?" _What should I do_?

"She's right," he said finally. "We'll have to take it easy."

Damian clenched his jaw, trying to restrain himself from arguing. It wasn't Richard's fault. He was making the right call. Damian knew that. And yet, all he can think about are the long, slow nights. The city had been hibernating in the blizzard. There was hardly any crime. He should have been happy. He should have been. But he hadn't slept in two days because he can't stop shaking. In the few moments of him closing his eyes, visions would come to him, and he'd have to get up and move around or else he might do something worse.

"I know," Dick said suddenly. Damian looked up at him and saw that his face was filled with uncertainty. "It's going to be difficult. But she confirmed what I had suspected for awhile—we're taking this too far. Our actions are causing more harm than good."

When Damian couldn't think of a response, Dick sighed in the silence.

"We'll spar later. That should help, yeah?"

"I don't want to fight you."

"I know," Dick said quietly, and this time, he seemed sure.

* * *

Patrol night is easy as it can be, as it has been for the past few days. The snow is reaching a record high for Gotham. The snowplows could hardly keep up with the constant downpour, leaving streets covered and tall banks on the curbs. Damian had to be careful with every step he took—the wrong step could sink his entire leg in the snow, and the blankets were taller than his boots. Damian felt that he should be sick of the snow by now—the rest of Gotham certainly was—and the reduced crime left him on edge all day. But now the cloudy skies were so often that it felt normal, and there were moments during the night where he'd stop and look, watching the flakes which were so small and shimmery that it was no different than glitter in the sky. The blankets of snow seemed to sparkle and the night was silent and, despite everything, a calm washed over Damian.

As they passed the rooftops, the powdery snow flying beneath their steps, Damian pointed out a row of mini snowmen in front of an apartment complex. Dick looked, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smile—visible beneath the half-cowl.

He laughed, and for a moment, the night didn't seem so dark.

Damian's hands trembled still. But for the most part, at least for that night, he felt okay.

* * *

They shouldn't have been sparring outside but Damian insisted. The Cave, as expansive as the training room was, felt so limited. Besides, the walls had begun to haunt him after his hours locked inside of it, like an animal stuck inside a cage much too small. They found someplace private but not too far from the city—they were still on patrol hours, and while Damian doubted that any problems would arise, it was best to be within distance.

It felt good to finally be fighting a living, breathing thing, and not the dummies and punching bags he had in the Cave. It was nice to have someone who could actually keep up with him, unlike the one-sided beatings he had given to perps. Someone on his skill level, who even seemed to be able to predict his movements, who could actually return the force that Damian put out. Still, it felt off, because this was the last person he should have been fighting.

They called it sparring but the word was just a safety blanket for what it actually was. Dick didn't strike back, simply because it was not his aim to win. It was his means of controlling a situation that could not be controlled, for a situation that had no clear solution.

Damian did not allow this passivity to discourage him. He tried to use their time together to quell this rage inside of him. He did want to control it. That same day, earlier in the evening before patrol hours, he had tried to meditate instead of running to the training room. It didn't work. Every time his consciousness reached a state of relaxation, something would ruin his concentration—not in a physical sense, such as a sound or a scent distracting him, instead it was something internal. His mind, somewhere deep inside, would not allow himself to achieve balance. So while they may not have been sparring in a traditional sense, Damian still charged forward with fervor, punching and kicking as Dick simply blocked and dodged each attack.

Damian can't read Dick, especially not in situations like this. He knows that Richard is in the moment, concentrating on Damian's attacks, blocking even the trickier combos with ease. But he kept wondering what Dick's thoughts were.

The air is cold. Their breaths are shorter. When Damian pulls back for a moment, his body finally catching up to him, Dick looks at him with an expression that Damian just can't read.

"You can do better than that," Dick said finally.

He's egging him on. But to Damian, it felt like permission.

So he went in again, swinging harder and faster, until his old practiced moves no longer seemed to be calculated but created out of instinct. And Dick has a harder time keeping up, not because he's less of a fighter, but because Damian is moving completely unpredictably.

He feels more like he's holding his breath than actually breathing. His movements more desperate to land than to win in an honorable way. Dick is taking the brunt of it, doing more blocking than dodging, and hardly fighting back at all.

Damian swings an arm at full force, but the minute he realized that he actually had an opening, he hesitated.

He pulled back his punch far too late, losing his balance and stumbling forward—but the ground was slippery beneath him, and they both went tumbling down into the snow.

Damian grimaced as the cold, wet snow touched him. He sat up, brushing the clumps of snow out of his hair, readjusting his hood. He turned over to look at Dick, who laid there, unmoving. Damian looked at his mentor questioningly, once again trying to figure out what Richard was thinking as he laid on his back and stared up at the sky.

"All the birds have left."

Damian stared.

"Some bats migrate," Dick continued. "Some might move to different caves, might even move indoors and scare the shit out of some people. But others just hibernate. They stay in their caves for the cold and when they wake up, they're half their size. Then they go out in the summer nights, fatten up, and then they just do it all over again. They never leave their caves—they just sleep."

" _Tt_. That's surprisingly poetic of you," Damian jibed. "Are you going to start singing in sonnets or is speaking in animal metaphors enough for you?"

But Dick didn't smile. Instead he turned his head, still unmoving from his spot, and looked in Damian's direction.

"I want to leave."

Damian couldn't think of a response, the world feeling quiet without Richard's words filling the void.

"I want you to go with me," Dick said.

A heat rose to Damian's face, so quickly that Damian had to tear his gaze away, grateful for the hood that covered his face. Damian had to wonder if Richard was just joking, but he seemed so serious that it was hard to believe he was. As Damian thought about it, entertaining the idea that maybe Richard was being honest, it sounded like a dream. A wonderful dream—but still an impossible one nonetheless.

"The cold has made you crazy," Damian said, and he tried to sound scoffing but it just sounded forced. "How would we do that?"

"The Justice League goes all over the globe. They could send me on the missions that they want me on. I could convince them to let you come along. I could finally ditch the Batman mantle. Maybe go to my old name. Maybe create something new. Who knows?" Dick seemed to be wondering out loud. It occurred to Damian that, at some point, Dick must have thought about this. That he had thought about leaving and taking Damian with him. At that, Damian's ears no longer felt numb, a dull heat returning to them.

"They wouldn't trust me. I don't think _you_ would even trust me," Damian said, and he couldn't help but feel that his words were sad. He knew that during the past year, Dick was still doing work on his own on the side. Knew that he had been working cases without him. And who could blame him? Damian wasn't angry about it anymore. Dick didn't bother keeping it a secret any longer, and secrecy aside, Damian was too uncontrollable these days. Dick should have been running off without him, not running with him.

Dick finally sat up, propping up his knee and resting his arm on it. He gazed off in the distance. "We've been through a lot. More than other people will understand. I'd like to think we can, at least, trust each other."

Damian wasn't sure if he could trust himself. Or Dick, for that matter.

"You can't mean that," Damian said. He thought about the people he hurt. The people he came close to hurting. The enemies he made. The reputation and legacy he destroyed. How could Richard want anything to do with him? Damian shook his head to himself. "What about Gotham? Not everyone hates Batman. Some people depend on him. Even if you wanted to get rid of Batman, you can't just _leave_. The snow will go. The winter will end. Crime will soar again and people will need help."

Dick was quiet for a moment. Finally, "I know. You're right."

Damian didn't want to be right.

Dick finally stood up, brushing the snow off himself. Damian moved to stand when Dick suddenly held out his hand to him. Damian glanced at it once before taking it. Dick helped him to his feet.

* * *

He hadn't shown up the next day.

Damian waited as patiently as he could for Dick to show up at the cave, as he had always done, so they could start patrol. Damian kept glancing at the time on the computer anxiously. Dick had been notorious for being disorganized and late, but Damian was already fully dressed and waiting, and it wasn't like Dick to cancel patrol without even saying anything.

Their last conversation seemed to echo in Damian's mind. He was filled with doubt. He wondered if Dick had left Gotham. But would he really just leave without saying goodbye?

Or perhaps that was his way of saying goodbye. Perhaps he figured it would be easier to not delay things.

Or worse, perhaps he was angry. They weren't that close anymore. There was too much history. Too many feelings. They only ever met on patrol, and even then, the feelings of camaraderie between them felt stiff.

Damian grabbed his cape and hood, discontent with waiting around, and too deeply concerned to not go out and at least look and see if Dick had went out on patrol on his own. He grabbed a motorcycle, finding the batmobile to be inconvenient for just himself, and strapped on his helmet and headed out into the city.

The roads had been mostly cleared of snow, although large banks were piled in corners and the sides of streets. The cold was enough to deteriorate people from leaving their homes, and the city was still quieter than its usual self, the side streets nearly desolate. The noise of the bike was even silent, as it was created to move stealthily through the night. It was hard for Damian to remember that he was not alone in this city.

The nights seemed even darker in the wintertime and the headlights of his bike seemed to be the only thing piercing through the darkness. The streets disappeared into night as quickly as he passed them and the lights could only see the lightly falling snow and the few feet in front of him.

He visited all of the familiar places—areas that they had been trying to keep an eye on. Neighborhoods that they patrolled, cases that they had been following, areas that they had set up cameras that sometimes needed to be maintained. It was strange to traverse these areas alone, without someone to follow or the sight of a distant cape rippling in the wind. As he moved from area to area, Damian tried to wrap his mind around the situation. None of these places made any sense to visit because Dick wouldn't have gone there without him. _He wouldn't_ , Damian told himself over and over.

His worry was beginning to increase. The tracker didn't seem to be getting a signal. He tried the communicator time after time but there was no connection between them. In the back of his mind, his fears began to nag at him. _He's gone. He's left you. He's left you here, alone. Who could blame him_?

The rooftops he travelled felt lonelier. Gotham Bay felt empty, save for nostalgic memories. But Damian wasn't ready to give up. He continued on, even as the frigid air had numbed his face and the cold began to bite into his knees and joints. Hours passed.

He should have reached out to someone. There were plenty of people who were more qualified to find Richard than him—detectives like his father, or Barbara, or Tim. But without Dick there, Damian felt that he couldn't ask them for help. It felt too personal. And perhaps, more selfishly, Damian didn't want their help.

He had to be the one to find him.

He was riding down an empty street when there was great bump in the road, sending his bike flying forward. He didn't react in time, _couldn't_ react in time, and found himself flying forward. He managed to gain the sense to twist his body in time so he could at least land safely, rolling himself across the cold, wet ground. He got to his knees, turning back quickly to catch the gleam of metal links in the light that would have crippled his vehicle completely if the advanced make of the motorcycle wasn't so well-protected and reinforced.

He rose to his feet, pulling out a batarang and glanced around, searching for the culprit who had set the trap. He caught movement in the corner of his eye. Damian threw the batarang in the direction, knowing that it landed as the shape disappeared and he quickly moved to catch up.

He found himself chasing after a man he did not recognize, and while this man was certainly quick, Damian was quicker. He was gaining ground when suddenly, the man turned around, something gleaming in the light.

Damian's reflexes were quick, and while the weapon may have hit anyone else at that close of a range, Damian was not just anyone. He dodged out of the way and leapt, tackling the man into a snow bank. The gun fell uselessly to the ground. As Damian had the man pinned, he glanced back at the weapon.

His eyebrows furrowed at it. It was a tranquilizer. This man wanted him alive.

Damian pulled back his helmet so he could get a better look at this man. He didn't look like anyone recognizable or special.

"Why are you after me?"

The man struggled out of his grip, trying to crane his head away from the snowbank so he could find where he had dropped his tranquilizer gun. Damian pressed his head deeper into the wall of snow and ice, seeing through his plotting and keeping his face forward.

"Don't look over there. Answer me. Why are you after me?"

"It's not me," the man finally said, reluctantly. "I'm just for-hire."

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Damian. "Who else are you after?"

"Look, you caught me," the man said, exasperated. "Let me go."

"Who hired you?" Damian said. He felt his blood beginning to boil. He didn't care if this man or an entire army was after him. But Batman was missing and _that_ was a problem. "Spill it out already," he growled. He twisted the man's head in the snow before pulling him back out to speak.

Suddenly the man twisted around, throwing his elbow. It managed to catch Damian in the face, and Damian felt blood well inside his mouth. It was a lucky shot and hadn't made Damian relinquish his hold.

Damian spat out the blood. He wiped the corner of his lip, catching the red painted on his thumb.

" _Tt_."

This man had made a big mistake. They were alone with no one to hold Damian back—and Damian's patience was short, had been for days now.

"Who hired you and what were your orders?"

The man hesitated to answer. So Damian turned him around, punching him the gut. It started with one, then another, then another, until the man finally seemed to shrink in place.

"Alright, alright!" he cried, trying to catch his breath. "I was told to bring you in alive. It was just me though. It took a whole team to bring down the Bat but—"

Damian's suspicions were confirmed, filling him with a deep anger. He sneered. "You're going to wish you had brought _two_ teams to grab me."

He raised his fist to punch again, ready to hurt him, but then he thought of Dick and reined himself back in. The top priority was finding Batman. Beating this man to a bloody pulp, however tempting, was not going to help his cause. It hurt because his blood was absolutely begging for it—as terrible as the circumstances were, this was the most action Damian had seen in a week, and his hands were shaking with the urge to continue this punishment. He couldn't afford to think about that though. He had to think about Richard.

"Tell me where you're keeping him."

"I can't tell you that. The price on bringing you in pales in comparison to bringing in a rat. He'll have me hunted down. Maybe even kill me."

Damian landed another punch, this one cracking against his jaw, and the man nearly fell but Damian was insistent on keeping him on his feet so he pulled him up by the collar.

"I'm five seconds away from using that chain of yours to hook you to the back of my bike and have it drag you across the asphalt. And if I didn't need you to talk, I'd just wrap it around your throat and be done with it. Don't test my patience any further: tell me everything."

* * *

The man led him to the richest part of Gotham, to the back alley of a luxurious building fitted with lofts. Damian let the man loose after he gave him the floor number, not out of pity or forgiveness as he should, but simply because he served no further purpose. There was only two people Damian was after—Richard and the man responsible for taking him.

But the for-hire had also told him of the trained guards the man had. Batman and Robin had safehouses in every district of Gotham, this one included. Damian stopped in to equip some additional items. He had brought all of his basic necessities when he left the Cave, though he had cleared out the pouches where medical supplies were stored and replaced them with additional tranqs. The amount of bombs he had should be enough. Perhaps a few more batarangs.

On the walls were bits of armor, more advanced gadgets, and weapons. Damian walked straight past the armor, deciding what he had on was enough, and there was nothing on the wall of tools that he didn't already have on his belt, so he stopped before the weapons. The safehouse arsenal paled in comparison to the Cave, but there was still an impressive collection, all lined up neatly in a row. He had seen this weaponry dozens of times in his lifetime—it had never once changed in the way that it was arranged, staying exactly the same as when he was just a child and was still running around the city with his father. It was only now that he eyed the wall with a growing sense of curiosity.

The wall was filled with weapons, but right down the center of it was a row of familiar items. The top was a pair of escrima sticks. Next was a pair of guns, undoubtedly equipped with rubber bullets. Then the bo. Finally, the sword. As Damian looked at it, he had to convince himself it was just a coincidence, but there was something so eerie about the perfect arrangement of four and the sequential order in which it was stacked. This set-up had existed long before Damian had ever become Robin, possibly before Bruce or Pennyworth or whoever set it up had even known that Damian existed. Deciding his mind was getting ahead of himself and at the worst possible time, he immediately tried to brush off his thoughts.

He went to reach for the bo like he usually did but stopped himself again, catching a glimpse of the hilt of the sword.

In disbelief, he immediately grabbed it instead, bringing it into the light to see. It was hard to notice at first—it had been unused for probably years and it seemed older besides, but etched into the cross guard was the Demon's Head. Still incredulous, he pulled back the sheath, feeling the familiar slide of the sword being withdrawn. As the steel was brought into the light, he narrowed his eyes, finding a name written in Arabic, his natural tongue, etched in the blade.

Damian glanced back up at the shelf in disbelief. How long had his grandfather's blade just been sitting in this dumpy safehouse?

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. No one in the Family used swords and there was no value in what couldn't be used. He was certain that the only ones who could even properly swing a blade was his father and Jason. And in the end, this sword was nothing spectacular—a little too old-fashioned, even, and weathered. He doubted even Ra's al Ghul would use it, even though it bore his name. Still, his father was such a sentimental sap that he had expected a token like this to be hung up in the Cave instead of sitting here like it was _waiting_ for him.

Shaking his head to himself, Damian sheathed it again, ready to put it back and grab the bo as intended. But as the sheath rested in his hands, he felt a moment of uncertainty, the bo suddenly seeming underwhelming in comparison to this great discovery. Damian tried to reason with himself. A sword was too dangerous. Aside from the guns, it was probably the most dangerous item on that shelf. But even then, a gun knew its direction, even though there was no turning back once it was fired, unlike a sword which could easily be repelled and likely to turn against him. Damian would have been better off using the bo, which was far more functional and reliable. Or even the escrima sticks, versatile and balanced, but capable of surprising effects when it was thrown and the like.

The sword belonged on the shelf, undiscovered, where it wouldn't shed blood.

Besides, the last time he had wielded a sword, he had almost done something terrible.

The memory coming to him, Damian sighed a little bit. And though he knew he might regret it later, he strapped the sword to his back.

When he returned to the building, he aimed his grappling gun to a post next to the floor he was supposed to be entering. He was launched upwards, clinging to the side of the wall. Without a voice commanding him or a pair of eyes watching him, he was left to do things his own way, which meant throwing caution to the wind. He was going to go in, it was going to be fast, and it was going to involve getting his hands dirty.

He slapped a small detonator on the window, using the small bit of footing he had to scoot away from the blast. One hand held the rope in case he fell, the other was clicking through the lens settings on his mask. The small, bat-shaped detonator blinked red a few times, giving Damian the time to grab a few things from his belt, and Damian counted the blinks in his head before it went off.

When it did, the window shattered and fell, and he quickly retracted the grappling gun from the wall and leapt his way into the room.

He immediately tossed in the flash bomb, startling every guard in the room. He only had a few seconds, so he immediately fired a tranquilizer gun into the backs of a few armed men. When the light faded, everyone came to and the lenses on his mask readjusted, and Damian found himself surrounded.

But he was hardly scared. If anything, he relished the challenge.

He ducked behind a recliner, just as gunshots fired—one of the bullets grazing his arm. He looked to his left, shooting a guard who had just raised her gun. She went down. He turned right, waiting until someone was in vision, and he shot again. His last tranq. He repocketed the gun.

The gunfire stopped. They were waiting for Damian's next move. He glanced around the room, noticing a picture frame that gave off a subtle reflection, indicating the location of a few guards.

Holding his grappling gun and batarang in each hand, he quickly stood up, tossing the batarang in the direction of the nearest gunman and sending him staggering backwards. He immediately turned and pointed his grappling gun between two guards, the end of it catching an end table, and he retracted the line—tripping both guards to the ground. The table stopped when it crashed into the recliner that shielded Damian, adding as extra protection as Damian ducked down in time as more guns fired.

Footsteps were quickly approaching, thudding on the carpet from both directions. Damian waited, and the first one that approached he quickly grabbed and tossed into the other just as they cornered him. Damian withdrew the sword that had been sitting on his back, quickly moving from his spot.

He jumped the nearest standing guard, the last gunman, and quickly knocked the firearm from his hands. He swung the sword, slicing the man from his shoulder to his opposite side, bringing him to his knees, the blood spilling forth. A group of men quickly circled Damian but he sensed them approaching, none of them quick enough to face him without a firearm in their hands, and he cut them all down, each one more violently than the last.

Suddenly a door slammed open. Damian immediately slid behind a desk, away from the sound of the entrance, just as gunshots fired off. Someone walked into the room, their gun aimed. Damian saw the image of the man in a mirror. His eyes looked ready to fire, ready to kill, but had none of the brawn of any of the other guards. Damian wondered if this was the one who was pulling the strings.

Damian heard the man's footsteps approaching—but Damian did not move from his spot, playing dead. The footsteps came to a stop and Damian maintained his position, his fingers slowly rewrapping themselves around the hilt of his sword.

The gunshot went off first. Damian was prepared, turning the corner out of range of the shots, leaping over the desk and bringing down the sword. The swing cut the man across the chest. The man staggered backwards, pointed his gun and fired in Damian's general direction. Damian moved but the bullet struck the sword, the force knocking it out of his hands.

But Damian was quick, grabbing the man who was falling. He yanked the gun out of his hands and tossed it aside. Damian maintained his grip on the man's collar, staring him dead in the eye.

"Where's Batman?"

"He's dead."

It was a big, stupid bluff—one that Damian didn't have the patience for. He gripped the collar a little tighter.

"Tell me where he is. _Now_."

"What, you don't speak English? He's dead. _You're_ dead," he said, an underlying tone of amusement to his voice. Damian breathed in through his nostrils, finding it harder to stay composed. Finding it harder to not snap.

"You think I don't realize this was a trap? You wouldn't kill him if you wanted us both gone. You needed to lure me in," Damian said, scrunching up his nose.

"Well," he said. "You're here, aren't you?"

Damian blinked, the realization setting in, and realized that perhaps this man wasn't bluffing at all. Then the man started laughing, a slow bitter chuckle that began to grow until he was almost laughing maniacally. And Damian's hands clenched around the collar, and whether this man was lying or not, Damian was done.

He never needed a sword for this.

He threw the man against the desk with enough force to crack the foundation. The man grunted as he crashed into it, his body nowhere near as strong as the guards he must have employed. He raised his arm to defend him from any oncoming blows but Damian simply grabbed him, growling to himself as he tossed him into the wall. The man's head made a loud noise as it crashed against the plaster. He fell to the ground on his own, stumbling almost clumsily onto his back.

Damian was on top of him in an instant, his hands not clenching into fists, but immediately going for the man's throat, throttling him.

Inside of Damian's mind was a red haze. The pent up aggression seemed to release all at once. The fangs and claws had come out. The man struggled, trying to pry Damian's fingers away from his throat, but Damian was unflinching. He could only stare into the man's eyes with a vengeance, his hands wrapping tighter and tighter.

He was choking him. Genuinely choking him. The man struggled for air, the color of his face becoming distorted beneath the flesh. His eyes began to bulge, mouth gaping open and closed, soundless because there was no longer any air to gasp its way out.

Damian was sure he could do it.

"You," the man suddenly gasped. And Damian stared down at him, not understanding. "It was you."

And as Damian stared into his face, longer and longer, watching the life fade from his eyes—

Suddenly, there was a flash across his image.

Damian jolted back, as if his hands had touched fire, his senses returned to him. His heart was beating faster, his body breaking out into a cold sweat, wondering about the image he had just seen in his mind. Wondering about what he had almost done.

Damian stood up straight, standing back and letting the man roll over, coughing and drawing in air desperately. Damian felt no pride in letting him go. If anything, it felt like fulfilling a begrudging responsibility. The man desperately regained his breath and he laid there, bleeding and coughing and looking pathetic. Clinging desperately, hopelessly, to hang on and live.

As Damian watched him, he slowly came to himself again. He thought about the man's words, which could have been his last. "What? What was me?"

The man was still struggling to capture his breath. But staring at the ground, he finally confessed, "Everyone thinks it was Batman. That it was Batman who is the imposter. That it was Batman who killed the commissioner. That it was Batman that was beating up the criminals. But it was you. I saw you. It was in the East End. You had my brother and his men. You broke their arms. Their jaws. Their noses. Their teeth."

Suddenly Damian realized that even though he was certain that he had not seen this man before, his face did remind him of someone—a resemblance that must have been familial. His words were unsympathetic. "I remember. Your brother had one of the largest human trafficking operations—he built himself quite the operation in crime alley. He had tons of money and tons of guards, probably the same men that you were running around with tonight. The night we caught him, we freed dozens of people."

"Who are you to judge him? God?" the man said, hissing.

"No," Damian said at once.

"You could have just handed him to the police—but you enjoyed torturing him. He was already on the ground but you kept at it. He can't use his legs anymore. Gotham will never be safe with you in it and Batman's a lousy, fucking hypocrite for not taking you in."

Damian saw the bruises forming on the man's neck and knew he could not argue.

"Leave this place. But do not expect another chance if I see you associating with your brother's puppets ever again. And if you try to follow in his footsteps, you're not going to get off so easy."

He ran off. Damian should have arrested him but he was still reeling over everything that had happened that night. And more importantly, he needed to see if Richard was okay.

Damian gathered his stuff and tied up the guards he had caught, all of them wounded or unconscious, and wandered around the loft hurriedly. He eventually found a closed off room.

Damian didn't realize how scared he had been until he entered.

Dick was conscious. He seemed to be in more than good shape, his uniform looking a little scratched up but he didn't seem to have any broken bones or blood. His posture was a bit stooped in the chair he was tied to and Damian wondered if he had been drugged or just had been confined for a very long time. But when the door shut behind Damian, Dick straightened a little bit. Damian recognized the look—he was alert, trying to sense what was going on.

He was blinded by a fabric around his eyes. It looked odd, being wrapped around the cowl, but there was no way anyone could have removed it without getting gassed or shocked without pressing the buttons with the proper passcode. Damian wondered, nearly amused, if any poor soul had gotten eager to find out the the identity of the Bat and ended up getting a startling surprise.

But Damian was naturally silent, able to control his movements and breathing in a way that even Dick could not accomplish. And as Dick sat there, blinded and waiting, Damian realized that Dick could not recognize him—it seemed he was struggling to figure out if there was even another person in the room or if the door had shut on his own.

Damian had been trained since birth to find the advantages of any situation, so perhaps that's why his mind wandered, but it did not stop the guilt from settling in.

He found this situation… advantageous.

Damian felt an overwhelming impulse wash over him and he ended up hesitating, pacing back and forth for a moment. He was still worked up from earlier, his blood racing. He was afraid he'd do something he'd regret, but he couldn't leave Dick there, even for just a moment. So he exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair, and tried to settle himself before moving forward.

He could undo the ties. It would be simple. Undo the blindfold. Then he could leave. It was simple. It should be simple.

But his emotions were anything but simple. He was relieved that Richard hadn't abandoned him after all. He was relieved that they were both alive. This relief filled him with a joy he hadn't felt in quite awhile, mixed with an emotion that Damian dared to never speak of. As Damian moved in closer, moving in to remove the blindfold first, he stopped.

As he stood fully in front of him, he felt mesmerized. His hands lingered in the air, close to touching Richard. And the entire time, Dick waited, listening.

Damian slowly knelt down. Unable to fight back the audacity, he dared to reach up, lightly touching the side of Richard's face. Dick immediately flinched, and Damian could hear his heart begin to pound as he realized Dick didn't recognize him, being sightless. His heart was racing.

He could do whatever he wanted and it'd be so easy.

He could hear Dick's steady, careful breathing. Noticed the subtle way his chest rose and fell with every breath. Even while blinded, Dick was watching. Waiting.

But there wasn't anything he could do, Damian realized. And the impulse was there, the overwhelming desire, and as Damian touched his face again, he wasn't sure if he could contain himself anymore.

 _Stop it_ , he scolded himself. _Stop this now or you'll do something you'll regret_.

He thought his self control was better than this. He tried stopping himself multiple times—as far back as when ideas of _this_ were just a boy's fantasies. He knew that his attraction was wrong, as innocent as it was back then, but he had let his mind wander. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe the problem was that he couldn't contain himself hard enough, that his discipline wasn't strict enough. That everything his father had said about him not exacting control was right.

He had made excuses for himself.

 _It's the blood of the Demon_.

From the moment of his conception, it had been chaos. He was conceived from trickery and born into darkness. He learned to take advantage of other people. He learned to stalk prey. He learned to get what he wanted. He _killed_. And maybe he couldn't help it.

There was a time where he always got what he wanted.

And Dick had allowed it. Allowed it to go on. Allowed him to unleash his anger, but always with careful supervision. But that was nothing like this.

There was no denying how wrong this was.

Regardless of what he was in the past, he was supposed to be better now. His father made sure of it. Pennyworth made sure of it. The Family made sure of it.

Dick made sure of it.

And now, Damian couldn't even put in the effort to feel guilty.

He's still blinded. His mouth opened, perhaps to speak of confusion, but Damian stayed silent. Let him think it's a stranger, scare him, but don't let him know the truth. Never the truth.

Damian started out tentatively. He brushed his thumb against the edge of the cowl, where the material reached Richard's skin, but the sensation of texture was lost between the layer of his glove. Yet he touched the skin, the skin he dreamed of touching for years. Not a platonic touch, but a touch of curiosity. Exploratory. Desirous.

That time Dick didn't flinch. It was almost as if he was waiting. Damian's fingers lightly brushed against his cheeks down to his lips. Damian finally leaned forward, dared to taste him. Dared to feel his lips against his own. His hands move down his body, over the strong shoulders and his chest and the padding of his armor.

It had been so difficult. So difficult to resist going further. So difficult to contain himself when perfection was laying there before him. And when Damian parted, he found himself shaking, because the one kiss wasn't enough. He wanted a response. He wanted to know what it sounded like to hear another voice than his own, to hear Dick's breath hitch as hands moved across sensitive skin, to see his muscles contract and relax as heat raced across his body. Wanted to see if Dick's responses were anything like his own when he laid awake at night.

The more his hands travelled, the more hesitant he became to touch. Because as much as he desired to, he was afraid. Afraid of crossing the line.

Afraid of what he had already done.

 _Stop this now before you do something you regret_.

"Damian."

He froze, unsure of whether he had imagined it or not. For a moment, everything was still, and Damian could scarcely breathe. He looked at Dick, just as the corner of the man's mouth slowly tugged into a smile.

A smile that felt forced.

Damian stared.

"C'mon, I know it's you. I recognize your breathing. Let me out of here."

The guilt and the fear brewed so strongly that Damian felt like he was going to be sick. Damian didn't say anything nor make a move—he wondered if he came too far to go back. If he let Dick go, he would have to face what he had done.

Or he could just finish this now.

The temperature is cold but Dick's light breath is warm, alive, on his skin. Damian wanted to kiss him again. But he didn't, cutting through the rope with the edge of a batarang. The last few fibers hung on tightly but Damian severed it with a second swipe, and before Dick can even rise, Damian started to head for the exit.

Dick called for him but the sound was distant, faded, as Damian moved briskly—nearly running—towards the exit. He was vaguely aware of Dick's footsteps closing in on him but he didn't turn back to face him. Couldn't turn back. His heart was racing the entire time, afraid of what Dick would do, afraid of what he would say. He decided it'd be better to ignore him.

When they reached the hall with the exit in sight, Dick finally cut in front of him. Damian immediately ducked out of the way but Dick grabbed him firmly by the wrist, and Damian is forced to look at him face to face.

Damian felt the heat in his face, red in embarrassment.

He immediately pulled his hand away, his gaze casting downwards.

"You never said anything," Dick said, his breath sounding shallow. Damian couldn't think of a response if he wanted to. Dick seemed on edge, rubbing the back of his neck, pacing a little. "Not once."

"How could I?" Damian said without meaning to.

"How long?" Dick asked, exasperated. _Years_ , Damian thought immediately, but couldn't bring himself to answer. He stayed stubbornly quiet until finally, Dick shook his head to himself. "I don't know what I said to you. I don't know what I am to you. But what you did—"

"So why didn't you _stop me_?" Damian fought back. Dick stood there, motionless. Damian's eyebrows furrowed, torn between anger and confusion and hurt. "You knew it was me. You knew it was me and you didn't stop me."

"I didn't know what you were going to do."

"Do you hate me?"

"No, of course not," Dick said quickly, dismissively.

"Be truthful," Damian said, chest twisting with doubt. "After everything I've done. After everything I've put you through. After all the things you've had to do for me. Do you hate me?"

Dick suddenly looked uncertain. The look was enough to make Damian swallow his words, his fears confirmed.

"Forget this," Dick said finally. "Forget about me. You don't know what you're asking for. You want things you don't understand."

Things were never that simple. Damian had tried to bury his feelings, stuff them down as deep as he could, but they always made their way to the surface. Perhaps he didn't know what he was asking for. Perhaps he didn't understand. But he could never just forget.

Could never forget that smile. Not the forced one, but the one from years ago, from before Dick had regularly worn a cowl.

"Let's go. We'll talk about it later," Dick said, but Damian knew the latter was a lie.

There was an unbearable, awkward silence as they made their way outside. Damian tried to think of words to say, tried to decide if he wanted to apologize or explain, but he was never good with words as it was.

"There's a safehouse near here," Dick said, calmly as ever. They stood on a bridge overlooking the Gotham River, and Damian looked at the river, momentarily mesmerized by the thin layer of ice that had covered it. It reminded Damian of glass. "It should have a batmobile. We can take it back to the Cave."

They were about to continue when there was a sound in the distance. Both paused, hearing it at the same time. But before they could react, someone charged out from behind a parked car. It was the man from earlier. Damian reached in his belt for something to subdue the man but the man was unflinching, screaming as he ran forward. Dick looked ready to move but Damian stood in between them, unsure of what this man was going to do. But the man wasn't after Dick, he never was, and instead of throwing a weapon or a punch, he kept charging forward, tumbling them both over the bridge.

And it was clever, whether this man realized it or not, because while Damian could heal any cut or broken bone, his breath could still be shortened.

This was the one place where death could reach him.

Damian didn't hear anything as they broke through the ice. They had plunged into the water too suddenly, any sound distorted by the sound of water currents.

They fell deeper into pitch black darkness, the cold so startling that Damian's body went into shock. The cold seemed to seep into every part of his being at once—his head, his hands, his feet. His well-nurtured survival instincts seemed to eventually take over. He clenched his jaw tightly, holding his breath, careful not to breathe in the cold water. His mind wasn't able to process anything else but survival. He forgot entirely about who dragged him down there, how he got into these cold and soundless waters, he only thought about escape.

He moved blindly through the darkness, the water too cold for him to open his eyes, trying to swim in the direction he believed he fell. He wondered if he had gotten disoriented in the process, if he was swimming closer to his death than escaping from it, but when he dared to open his eyes, he noticed a different color in the shapes and blurs. He swam towards it, breaking the surface from which he fell.

The cold air immediately hit him, stunning him again. He coughed up what water he had inhaled. He clawed for something to climb onto in hopes of hoisting himself over the edge but the ice slipped underneath his fingers. The surface was steady but he was shivering too greatly, his hands shaking and sliding over the slippery edge, and he was hanging on better than he was getting a grip. His impulses took over—he kept one arm tightly over the edge, but the other one slipped to his utility belt, an old instinct he had developed for the times he was in trouble.

He didn't know what he was looking for. It was too cold to think. His body was panicking. His hand groped blindly beneath the water, finally settling on a familiar shape, and that's when his mind finally began to come to its senses.

Damian pulled the grappling gun from the belt. He aimed it for the nearest surface—the top of a wall barricading the river. His hand was shaking so bad he was sure that he would drop the gun or miss. He took the shot anyways. The drawback of the gun had never felt so staggering until that moment—the tendons in his arm seemed to tremble, but he held on as the shot embedded itself perfectly into the wall. From there, he grabbed the rope and pulled himself along it, rolling his body over the surface.

The ice, already brittle near the edges, began to crack. Damian doubted it would collapse, but if did break through, he would still have the rope—he just needed to hang on. The rope would be too strong to wrap around his hands—he'd be successful in ripping it clear off if he did fall through the ice—so he couldn't afford to let go, even as his body shivered and his hands were so hurt from the cold that he was certain they couldn't move. He pulled himself along the surface, making sure to keep his body flat so as to not add stress and weight to the ice—even as the gritty surface began to cut and scratch at his clothes.

When he made it close enough to land, he finally stood, hoisting himself over barricade that guarded the river. He shivered violently as he climbed over, finally landing on solid ground, where everything went black.

* * *

He was in a dark place. He no longer felt cold or warm. He felt nothing at all.

He couldn't move. His eyes simply stared into the long, dark empty place. The shadows slowly began to shift, giving way to a new form in the darkness, spreading until its shape was revealed. Red eyes peered down at him.

He did not know who this person was—if it could even be called a person. But he had seen this face many times. In his nightmares, in his visions, always the same. Along with the vision, he began to feel an emptiness in his core. The wound that had killed him. He had visited this scene many times, mostly in fragments, but never with such clarity, and never in sequential moments.

Damian continued to stare in the red eyes. He felt calm. So calm that he began to wonder if this was happening now—if he had died once again. But then the being spoke to him, in the same words he had heard so many times before, that he knew that it had to have been a memory.

 _I'll make you a deal_ , it said.

And while the words had always felt like riddles, this time Damian understood. His strange abilities. The cuts he had received, the bones he had broken, every pain inflicted disappearing as if it hadn't existed at all. It hadn't been the Lazarus Pit at all. It had been here, right here, as he stared into the eyes as red as hellfire.

 _A deal_ , it had said. _The blood of the demon._

But it was more than just blood that this figure was speaking of. Blood was endless. Blood was shed, was lost, was exchanged, was passed on, but so long as Damian lived, there would always be blood. He had paid his price in blood many times, could pay it many more times, could pay it as long as he willed.

He'd have to pay more than blood. He'd have to pay his soul.

And Damian realized in that moment that he cared not for blood. Not for the blood he spilled as he cut through his enemies, not for the blood he sacrificed in battle, not even for the blood that ran through his veins. Blood did not create bonds. He thought of his family, his _real_ family, a misfit band of orphans and street kids and kids from privilege alike. The people he trained alongside, the people he followed on the rooftops, the people he admired, respected, _loved_.

But would he give his soul?

And then other memories came to him, in a way that they never had before. Memories that smelled like Wayne manor. Memories that shone like moonlight. Memories like the feel of rain against his skin, a firefly landing on his shoulder, leaves tickling at his ankles, snowflakes falling on his lashes. And in each one of those memories were a thousand more, like an endless set of doors one after the other, but the ones he remembered the greatest all ended with a familiar smile.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to. He wasn't sure if he was ready. He wasn't sure if it was necessary. But the answer finally came, like the pieces of a puzzle coming together, and he breathed:

 _Yes_.

And suddenly everything was spinning, a current around him, and for a moment it was chaos. But Damian suddenly knew where he was—the Lazarus Pit. He emerged from its waters, his vision shaking, his grandfather's assassins standing watch around the pit looking like demonic shadows. Shadows that needed to be erased.

His heart was racing. Madness had overtaken his mind. But this time, he _recognized_ it as madness. And even though everything was so quick, such a blur, it had never felt so vivid.

And Damian didn't want to experience it. Didn't want to see what he was sure would happen. But the scene played for him, no longer in fragmented moments and feelings and instincts, but clearly. So clearly.

When he charged the assassins, blood was shed. They tried to contain him, try to pull him back. He kicked them, bit them, scratched them. Until finally he managed to get his hands on one.

His hands had wrapped around the throat, slamming the assassin's head into the ground, over and over, beating him and choking him all at once. And Damian didn't want to experience it. Didn't want to kill the man.

Didn't want to know the truth.

And he was ready to shut down his mind. Ready to let the scene blur into the next, to leave his questions unanswered as they always did, to continue pretending and denying, but he didn't. He continued to grip tighter around the man's neck, the man's life beginning to drain from him, certain to suffocate.

Then, a bout of strength, and the neck snapped.

Damian opened his eyes.

The senses that were absent in his memories began to return to him. He smelled what must have been burning candles. He felt the dampness of his clothes.

"You're alive."

Damian became alert at the sound of the voice, strange yet oddly familiar. He sat up straight, realizing he was in a place he did not recognize. As he moved, a blanket slipped from his shoulders.

He immediately touched his face for his mask, found that it was still there.

"Don't worry," the voice said gently. "You're safe here."

Damian glanced around. He had been sitting on a dark, wooden bench. His cape hung over the edge. It was still dripping. Not much time must have passed. The lighting in this place was dim—it was not yet daylight. There were a few lights on by the doorway but they seemed so distant in the vast space. Damian's eyes were instead drawn to the light before him—candles burning at an altar, dimly illuminating the large crucifix above it.

"I was close to calling for an ambulance," the voice said. "But I know that you and your comrades don't associate with the public. And to my surprise, by the time I brought you here, you were no longer freezing. Strangely enough, you seemed warm. Like being brought back to life."

At that last bit, Damian couldn't help but shake his head a little.

"Who are you?" Damian asked.

He looked at the figure in the corner, the source of the voice. The light touched his shoulders but not quite his face, and his back was turned anyways. He spoke familiarly, almost as if he knew all about the Family, and his voice made Damian wonder. But Damian was not the religious sort, his father never spoke of religion, and no one else in the Family seemed to be of practicing faith, so he was certain that a priest could not know them.

"A friend. Where's your partner? I didn't see him anywhere. He might wonder why you're missing—unless he pushed you into the river himself."

"He didn't," Damian said coolly, having heard a lifetime's worth of accusations against Batman.

"I know, son. It was a joke. Everyone else believed the story about the previous commissioner's murder but it didn't make sense to me. It's just not Batman's style, and Batman is good besides."

Damian calmed down. The priest still brought up a valid point—Dick must have wondered about his absence, must have wondered if he was even alive. Damian immediately reached for his belt, which had been left untouched, and reached for his communicator.

Unfortunately, it had gotten fried in the water. He sighed.

He grabbed his things and began to head out the door.

"You're leaving?"

"I have to," Damian said. "He might be looking for me."

"At least let yourself dry."

Damian's clothes were still wet and cold, for sure, but what the priest had said had been correct—Damian felt warm, alive, as if his body had been fighting the reaches of death. Damian knew he had to go, to return to the Cave and contact Dick, but he found himself pausing in the middle of the aisle. The somber faces of saints seemed to surround him. Damian couldn't recall ever stepping inside of a church, except for the few times a mission had called for it, though he understood its purposes well enough.

Damian thought of the memory he had just experienced. Even though everything had finally become clear to him, the separation between truth and imagination finally coming to life, as well as the realization of the sin that he had committed… there was still a part that confused him, and that was the identity of the face with red eyes that he had made his pact with.

He turned to look back at the shadowy priest, who seemed to be watching and waiting patiently.

"What does the devil look like?"

"There are many interpretations but I believe the devil comes in many forms," the priest answered well enough. Pausing momentarily, he asked, "Do you have something to confess?"

Damian thought about the man beneath his hands. The day he had escaped from the Lazarus Pit.

The person he had killed.

"No," Damian said finally.

"I see," the priest said, his voice a tad bit quiet. "Should you ever find yourself in need, I will be here."

Damian opened his mouth, ready to pry into the identity of the man he was speaking with, but he finally closed his mouth. The priest had not unmasked him, even though any other would have. Damian couldn't be sure if this priest was trying to hide himself or not, but in the end, he decided it did not matter. He was grateful and that was all that mattered.

"Thank you," he said finally, and he moved to return home.

He stepped outside, the cold touching his skin but he paid no mind. He took a slow breath, the cold air fresh in his lungs, and softly exhaled. His mind had never felt so clear yet so heavy.

He had known the truth for awhile. He was not certain of course, not until now, but deep down he had a feeling. Had a feeling that on the day he was resurrected, the day he had risen from the Lazarus Pit, that he had broken his vow. That he had killed again.

But he didn't want to know the truth, even though he had searched so long for it. He was too afraid. Not just of knowing, though knowing did hurt, but afraid that it would change him.

"Robin!"

Damian's eyes snapped open at the sound of Richard's voice. Sure enough, Batman was at the end of the street. Dick quickly hurried to meet him.

"You're okay," he said, sighing.

"How'd you find me?" Damian asked.

"Your tracker apparently survived in the water," Dick said. He was referring to the chip that they kept in their belts. In truth, Damian usually turned it off before patrol because he hated the idea that he could be followed—an idea that had formed back in the days when his father was still Batman. It seemed that the one time he forgot to turn it off ended up being a good thing. "You weren't gone long. How are you moving around?"

Damian shrugged. "Some priest from this church pulled me out. My body must have helped me fight the hypothermia—or something. I really am not sure."

Dick looked a bit dumbfounded. Damian supposed it did seem like a strange story.

"That man…" Damian started, just now thinking of it.

"When I saw you pull yourself out of the water and knew that you were safe, I immediately tried to track him down," Dick said. Damian knew by the tone of his voice that it did not end well. "He never broke the surface. I contacted GCPD to let them take care of the search, but I doubt he ever made it out." Dick let that information sink in before adding, "After that, I came back to the spot where you pulled yourself out but you were _gone_."

"It's okay. I'm fine," Damian said, but then he shuddered suddenly. Dick flashed him a look that was almost pitiful, something that would normally stab at Damian's pride. However, after all of the events from that day he was simply exhausted and relieved that they were, relatively speaking, okay, and so he let the look go by without saying anything biting.

"We should head back to the Cave immediately," Dick said. "I think we're both done for the night."

Damian was more than ready to agree.

"You said a _priest_ saved you?" Dick asked as they moved into the direction of a safehouse. Damian opened his mouth to respond but his teeth began to chatter. Dick glanced back at him before unhooking his cape from his cowl. "I'll trade you."

Damian was too cold to act proud, so he complied, handing over the wet cloak he was carrying and taking Dick's dry one. The Batman cape had nothing to hook onto, so he simply hung it around his shoulders and held it in his hands. It still made a significant difference—it shielded him from the wind and kept whatever little heat contained.

"He didn't want anything. He didn't even ask who I was," Damian said. "He seemed a stranger, but there was something a little familiar about him."

They took a few more steps before Dick paused. He suddenly glanced back at the church, a deepset frown on his face—not in a way that he was upset or saddened, but in a way that he appeared to be thinking hard about something. Something that might have caught him offguard.

"Is something wrong?" Damian asked.

"No, nothing," Dick said immediately, his voice a tad bit quiet. He shook his head. "Just a thought."

They made it to the nearest safehouse where a batmobile awaited them. Damian moved to the armory to see if he could find an extra uniform to change into but all that awaited him was one of his old uniforms. The vest alone was a size too small, dated back to before his most recent growth spurt, so Damian didn't bother looking for the rest of his garments, changing just into the tight vest and some dry boots, and returning Dick's cape and grabbing a new hood and cloak for himself.

They made it back to the Cave in a decent amount of time anyways. Damian immediately went to go shower and change, leaving Dick to log files into the computer. The last thing Damian wanted was _more water_ but he was going to be damned if he was going to be dipped into the Gotham River—a place that locals often joked about being so polluted that they claimed going in meant coming back out with a third arm—without washing off afterwards.

The bed felt tempting but he decided that he really shouldn't settle down for the night without helping to shut the Cave down. Besides, there was still one more thing that Damian had to say.

Dick hadn't moved from his spot at the computer. He hadn't yet started shutting down for the night. Damian watched him for a few moments, and while Dick must have known he was there, he didn't say anything.

"You should go," Damian said, breaking the silence.

"I just want to add a few more things," Dick said, eyes still glued to the screen. "I can shut everything down. Get some rest."

"That's not what I meant," Damian said, his gaze falling, and at that, Dick stopped typing. The Cave was eerily quiet without the clacking of the keyboard to fill the silence. They stood there for a moment, words unspoken but the tension palpable, and Damian finally continued, "You should leave Gotham. Like you said."

"I thought you told me not to."

"I was being selfish. I realize that now," Damian said, and he knew he had been. In many ways. He could feel Dick's eyes on him, watching him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet his gaze. He spoke, almost muttering, "I think things would be better that way. I think you'd be happier that way. If the Justice League allows you to, I think you should do it."

"Do you want to go with me?"

Damian couldn't believe he even asked. He thought about everything that happened that night, particularly his moment of shameful display when he had found him in that loft. That moment where he had crossed the line, revealed too much. There was more than that—there was a deeper shame. The crimes of what he had done. The crimes of what he could have done. How could Richard even ask, much less _want_ , Damian around? If he knew the whole truth…

Damian knew he couldn't leave Gotham. His home was here. His family was here. And even if he was willing to leave that all behind, he felt a sense of duty in Gotham. A place of belonging that he could never quite escape, though he could not explain why. Perhaps it was the pact he made. His soul in exchange for the protection of Gotham. Be it gift or curse, there was no denying the usefulness of his abilities, and there was no other life that Damian knew of.

Damian belonged in Gotham. And it wasn't right of him to want to keep Richard tied down here too.

"No," Damian said.

At that, Dick shook his head to himself. "I can't do that. I can't leave you here alone. What about everything that's been happening?"

"I'll have to figure it out," Damian said, shrugging. He tried to play aloof, but it was a fear that was already weighing down on his shoulders. Even though he now understood what these visions meant, he still wasn't entirely sure if it would change his behaviors. He could easily cross the line again, become the monster he already believed he was. Being tethered to Richard seemed to be his only way to escape from that—but it wasn't fair to keep holding him down. "It's not right for you to stay here any longer. You've paid nearly five years for it. I'm grateful, for me and my father both, but it's time you let go of it."

Dick seemed to consider Damian's words. Quietly, he said, "Do you think you can handle it on your own?"

Damian immediately wanted to spit out _yes_ but the lie was too thick to speak. Mouth dry, he said, "Things have been really complicated. I don't know if I can control myself. I don't really know what the future entails. Honestly, I can't do this on my own." He swallowed. Memories growing in his mind. He finally confessed, "I don't _want_ to do this on my own."

At that, Richard seemed to grow quiet. He sighed softly, the sound so subtle it was hardly there at all, and he said, "I'm not going to leave you. I promise. You'd have to push me away to get me to leave."

"I know," Damian said, and he did. And that's what made this so difficult. "But you don't owe me anything. Not ever."

"It was never about that," Dick said, shaking his head in disbelief. Emotion began to rise in his voice. "Me taking the cowl wasn't about feeling like I _owed_ you. It wasn't an obligation, it was a choice. I wanted to help you _and_ Bruce. I wanted to protect you. If I leave you behind, without at least knowing that you can handle things without hurting yourself in the process, then all of this was for nothing."

Damian began to feel agitated. While Richard's words were heartfelt and genuine, they also seemed hopelessly blind.

"I'm telling you to _forget_ about it," Damian said, scowling. He thought about his visions. He thought about how angry he had been all night. The guards he had tortured and attacked. The excitement that he found in that. The man he had almost killed, his hands pressing and pressing and pressing… and the man that he _did_ kill, so many years ago, whose death he had denied for all of these years. "Look, when I went to that loft to save you, you didn't _see_ it. You weren't _there_. Without you watching over me, I did awful things. Getting pulled into that river was nothing less than what I deserved. I almost—"

Damian couldn't finish it. He was still afraid of what Richard would think of him. But Dick had listened carefully and quietly, he understood Damian's silence.

"You wanted to kill him," Dick finished for him.

"I did," Damian said, and his chest tightened at the confession, afraid of how Richard would react. But Dick didn't so much as blink.

"But you didn't," Dick said calmly, reassuringly. Damian shook his head to himself.

"You don't understand. You didn't see it. He was in my hands—"

"But you _didn't_ ," Dick insisted. "Whatever you wanted to do, you didn't—"

"You make it sound so simple," Damian said, exasperated.

"This is all the more reason why I need to stick around."

"I'm telling you that it's _not_ worth it. I'm telling you to live your own life. I'm just going to ruin everything for you, just like I've ruined everything else—"It was getting harder to speak. It was getting too personal. Self-doubts that Damian felt but never knew he could speak began to come to surface. He was beginning to hate the sound of his own voice.

"Don't say that," Dick said.

"I killed someone."

The words slipped out all at once, the end-all to their argument. Dick's expression, what was seen of it behind the cowl, seemed to fall at this news.

"When?" he asked.

"I was having these visions—I can't quite explain it, but I've had them for years," Damian said slowly, hesitantly. He could feel Richard watching him the entire time, and the pressure began to build on top of Damian, every word feeling heavier than the last. "Today I realized what they meant. That day, when I was revived in the Lazarus Pit, I killed someone. I had my hands wrapped around his throat. I snapped his neck. He died in my hands, because of me." Damian shook his head to himself. Under his breath, regret and shame beginning to swell in his throat, he said, "Do you get it now? You can't protect me."

"You weren't yourself. Anyone who emerges from the Lazarus Pit experiences insanity," Dick insisted. He sighed heavily. "For God's sake, Damian, you're lucky you got out of there as well as you did."

"But I chose to do it." Damian shook his head to himself. How could he possibly explain everything? He still wasn't sure if he completely understood—the only thing he was certain of was the deal he made. "I had a choice. I could have stayed dead. The Lazarus Pit resurrected me, yes, but there was more to it than that. It's the same reason I have these healing abilities. I made a choice and I _killed_ someone. I made a deal because I wasn't ready to die. My time here had been so short, I just wanted it to be a _little_ longer." Damian stopped, knowing that he was rambling.

"I don't understand," Dick said, his tone a tad quiet. "What deal?"

"My soul, in exchange for these abilities. In exchange to protect everyone. I know it doesn't make sense but believe me—"

"Okay, okay," Dick said, trying to slow the conversation down. "Look, I don't need to know the details. My point is that you're not a killer. You're not."

"I enjoyed it."

Dick turned his head. He didn't seem angry. He didn't seem disgusted. He seemed defeated. And Damian was surprised to find that, above everything that he had feared, that was the one reaction he hadn't been expecting. He also hadn't expected it to hurt as much as it did. He was raised with the expectation to win every fight he engaged in, but this was the one argument he wished he hadn't won. If Richard's spirit wasn't already broken, it certainly seemed to be now, and Damian felt that he had wasted it all. Wasted years of Dick's life. Took his effort, all the blood he had shed and the words he had offered in the effort to save Damian, and wasted it. After everything Dick had done, it had been for nothing, and that shamed Damian deeply.

"I don't want to drag you into this any further than I already have," he said, hoping to leave it at that.

"Maybe this is all pointless," Dick said.

Damian slowly nodded, hoping that his agreement would finally convince Dick to stop, to abandon the cowl and pursue the happiness he deserved, but Dick didn't stop there.

"Maybe in the end, after everything, none of the work we've done will ever matter. Maybe we're careening down a path that leads towards nothing good. Maybe things won't work out." Dick shrugged and looked at him. "But why don't we just see things through to the end?"

Damian looked at him, surprised, but Dick spoke so surely, so genuinely, and at that, Damian could not speak.

"Come on," Dick said finally, with a low sigh. "It's late. Let's shut down the Cave together. Let's talk about this when we're not tired and beat up."

Dick turned, shutting down the computers. A moment of worry began to nag at Damian. This wasn't how things were supposed to end. Dick still didn't get it. As Dick headed toward the table and wall with all of their equipment, Damian trailed behind, though his mind was still reeling. How was he supposed to get his message across? How was he supposed to convince Dick that he couldn't stay— _shouldn't_ stay?

How could he tell Dick that, worse than being irredeemable, he was unsafe?

As they stood before the wall of equipment, Damian picked up on something in the corner of his eye. Damian found himself reaching for it, an impulse overtaking him. He grabbed Richard by the wrist before he could respond in time.

"What are you doing?" Dick said, his voice hinting at betrayal, as Damian joined the cuff to the nearest railing.

There was one thing Damian still hadn't confessed.

Dick had asked him how long.

Damian could pinpoint little moments in his life when his feelings for Richard came to life. The night on the firescape when he slipped from the roof. The first patrol when they had become Batman and Robin again. The time where Richard had grasped his healing hand and discovered his secret—and the time he had kept his secret. The era where everything had turned bleak and Damian had been lied to, and yet Dick still reached for his shoulder.

Each moment, individual and fleeting, like snowflakes tumbling toward the earth. Joining together to create something that could be both beautiful and cold.

How long? Damian didn't know.

But perhaps it had all started here, right where they had first began their journey. When they had first met and Dick was his own person and Damian was just a kid even though he didn't understand what being a kid meant, and they were both trying to find their own paths, and everything had spiralled chaotically, wonderfully out of control.

And this was stupid and irrational. Anyone could come down, see what Damian was doing and stop him. And maybe the good part of Damian wanted to be stopped because he knew he was going to make a mistake that he and Richard would both regret. A mistake that possibly neither would recover from.

Dick instinctively raised his free hand, perhaps to push Damian away, but Damian caught him by the wrist. Damian leaned in closer, pressing his lips against Dick's.

Dick quickly broke the kiss, turning his head away.

"Damian," he said with a low growl, like a warning.

Dick had been right. Maybe it was just pointless. But Damian had to see this through to the end. He couldn't keep lying. He couldn't keep hiding it. But his excuses were long and gone from his head at that point—he was reacting impulsively, his control slipping from him, his desire consuming him.

He held Dick's face between his hands, the layer of the cowl separating the contact between Damian's hand and Richard's skin, and crushed his lips against Dick's again. Dick placed a hand on Damian's chest, trying to create distance, but he wasn't pressing hard enough. Damian wondered if Dick was still trying not to hurt him, even now, despite everything.

Damian could hear his own breath, husky and quivering with adrenaline, and he pressed down on Dick's shoulders until the older buckled. Damian lowered them to the ground, Dick's hand still cuffed above him. Dick's cape is pooled beneath him, the fabric protecting Damian's knees from the scratchy concrete as he climbs on top of him.

Dick opened his mouth to speak but Damian ignored it, kissing him again, feeling the warm and soft skin against his own. The elder wasn't responding to any of the movements, even though his other hand was free, and Damian wondered. Wondered what he was waiting for. More, selfishly so, he wondered how far he could take this. Perhaps he could reenact every scene he had dreamt of—them together, sighing and touching. Secretly, despite everything, he hoped Dick would stay, that he wouldn't leave him, that he would accept this treachery inside of him and remain as loyal as ever.

His hands fumbled on the buckle of the utility belt, and Dick visibly tensed as it came undone. As it slid to the floor, Damian's hands slipped underneath the shirt of the uniform, skin finally meeting heated skin, and Damian realized in that moment that he's wanted this for a long time. So long.

The situation isn't anything like the scenarios he envisioned in his head, late at night in bed. There are no loving, heated touches or whispered words of praise. This time he's terrified, scared of how Richard will react when he finally does, afraid that he'll be hated. His desires feel less out of love and more out of lust, of _need_. But despite everything he didn't stop, didn't _want_ to stop, and whatever his original intentions were seemed to slip away from his mind.

Richard's jaw was clenched tightly shut, his head turned almost stubbornly as Damian's hands travelled underneath the shirt. Damian felt the heat of Richard's skin. The texture of it.

As he moves his hands lower, feeling the strong muscles of his stomach, raised scars meet his fingertips. He ignored the bullet marks, the deep scars. The nearly fatal marks. He's surprisingly familiar with them, even though he's never touched them. He didn't need to focus on them because he already knew the story behind most of them, particularly the darker and newer ones.

Because they've always been together. Even when untouching, they have always been together.

Dick suddenly made a noise, like he's trying not to sigh. A hitched breath as Damian's hand moved further down, beneath the waistband of his pants. Dick's cuffed hand twisted in place, fist clenching and unclenching, in its confines, like he's debating whether or not to make his move. And Damian paused for a split second, like a deer caught in the headlights, but when Dick continued to say nothing, Damian continued even though he knew he shouldn't.

Damian was mesmerized by the heat in his hand. The shape of it. The size of it. The weight of it. He continued to touch it, hot and smooth in his hand. Tried to become familiar with it. He focused in on Dick's face, gauging his reactions based on what he's doing to him, absorbing every subtle movement.

Dick wasn't saying anything. His face looked stern. The only indication that he was reacting was his unsteady breathing. The rise and fall of his chest. The shirt is still hiked up, and Damian can see his reactions in the subtle way his ribcage moved beneath his flesh. And even though he was restraining himself, he was reacting, and Damian could feel it. It was magnetizing in a way, and Damian wondered how Dick managed to do it time after time, managed to attract him despite the fact that Damian couldn't even be bothered to talk to anyone else.

Damian pulled down the waistband, stroking the member in his hand. Dick's free hand finally moved, grabbing Damian by the forearm, but not hard enough to stop. The hold began to slacken, and Dick let out a shuddering breath.

"You're hard," Damian dared to whisper. His voice had a tone of wonder to it. Damian's own body responded in other ways, less wonder and more fervor.

Damian knew he was getting to him. Even as Dick bit back and gritted any noises, there was the occasional inhale or hitched breath. His face, what was revealed beneath the cowl, was slightly flushed. Damian quickened his hand, wanting more. Wanting every gasp, every reaction. His other hand is wandering too, running up and down Dick's side gently, feeling the muscles move beneath his hand. Dick shifted in place.

"Damian," Dick finally said, his voice deterring him. And while Damian was sure that the name was supposed to come off as a warning, it came off too breathy, in a way that made heat rise to his face. In a way that ignited a deeper desire.

"C'mon, Damian," Dick said, almost with a growl, sounding more assured this time. His hand pulled against its confines, the cuffs clanging almost loudly against the railing. "Undo it."

Damian's gaze fell, the realizations of his actions finally weighing down on him. He wanted to disappear forever, to drown in his guilt and suffocate in it. He never imagined he would let it get this far, never. His hands ran over the man's shoulders, and Dick's face seemed to relax as a hand ran up to his cuffed wrist.

Damian felt his throat grow hot, as if all the words he wanted to say were just burning inside. His heart was thumping against his chest.

Was it worth it?

Did he ruin everything? He knew he threw their camaraderie out the window the minute he cuffed him—perhaps even before then, all that time ago, when he had kissed him in that loft. Dick was probably disgusted with him, probably hated him, and Damian thought that was what he wanted. That if Dick knew the real him, he'd finally forget about him.

But could he have done something worse? Could he have ruined Dick Grayson? Knowing Dick, it'd probably eat him up inside. He'd blame himself for what happened. Blame himself for what Damian did. Damian could live with Dick hating him, but he couldn't live with Dick hating himself. That was never his intention.

"I can't," Damian finally said, his voice quiet. Dick seemed still beneath him. "If I do, this ends. We can't go back to the way things were. And afterwards..."

He'd have to face what he had done. If he removed the cuffs, the consequences—

Dick was quiet. His lips parted slightly, as if he were trying to say something, but whatever words he had in mind never came out. Damian stared at him. He always thought the man was beautiful—from his sculpted, lean body to his ebon hair. Even his face, scarred beneath his lip from Slade's blade all those months ago, was perfection. The cowl seemed to disrupt the image—a piece with tinted lenses that interrupted the center of Dick's face, taking away what made him identifiable, as well as one of his best assets—his eyes.

Damian's hand crawled up, starting to undo the cuff.

It fell noisily to the floor, and Dick rolled his shoulder to release the tension built in from having his arm pinned up. Damian waited—waited for Dick to push him away, to punch him, to strangle him. But Dick simply paused for a moment, stretching his arms and flexing his fingers before finally reaching for Damian.

Damian flinched at the touch, and his heart beat began to race as he anticipated what would happen next. Dick's hands moved almost blindly across Damian's body, and though the younger tried to keep still, he couldn't help but shudder at the feeling of the man's warm and gentle hands, further aggravating the lust he had inside of him.

 _He hates you. He's going to kill you_.

The hands continued to roam—from his shoulders down to his chest, past his stomach.

 _You ruined everything._

Dick's hand moved between Damian's thighs. Damian's eyes widened and he clenched his hands to prevent himself from reacting. Richard began to press against his hard and sensitive erection, and though he tried to control himself, Damian couldn't help but shudder.

 _Stop it. Control yourself._

He had been so worked up the entire time. So hard. So aroused, even though he shouldn't have been. His cock was begging for relief of any kind. Dick's expression was unreadable, the shadows beneath the cowl obscuring his face as he looked down to pull at the waistband of Damian's pants. He reached for him, the contact against his member causing a spark to run up Damian's spine. Damian reached out to hold Dick's shoulders for balance.

Dick stopped for a brief second, glancing at the hand on his shoulder, before undoing his own bracers. He removed them and the gloves and reached back down, his naked fingers wrapping around Damian's flesh and slowly stroking, almost leisurely, and Damian sat there and shuddered, biting on his bottom lip to prevent himself from making any noise.

He didn't trust it. It had to have been some kind of trick. Damian tried to fight the pleasure his body was receiving, but couldn't bring himself to tell Dick to stop. If this was what Dick wanted, even if it was a cruel joke, Damian had lost both the right and the will to tell him what to do.

He felt so much guilt and shame and embarrassment, and his pleasure only seemed to intensify those feelings.

Damian began to tremble, his cock beginning to leak precum. Dick smeared it over the head of his cock and finally, Damian let out a noise. A soft moan he couldn't withhold.

"I'm sorry," Damian managed to say, and he felt his eyes begin to burn. He was apologizing for a lot of things. He hoped Dick understood, but the man continued to be wordless, his expression unreadable. Damian wished he could understand what Dick was thinking in the same way that Dick always seemed to know him. "If you hate me—"

Damian couldn't finish that thought.

Dick pulled his hand away, and Damian relaxed slightly.

This couldn't have been the end. Damian was still waiting—waiting for a fist to strike him across the face, waiting for the reprimand at least... but instead the hands found Damian by the hips.

Damian's breath wavered when Dick rolled his hips upward, his cock pushing against his.

"Richard—"

Damian was cut off when Dick leaned in, his lips meeting his own, kissing him deeply. Damian shuddered as a tongue slipped inside of his mouth, tasting him thoroughly.

Suddenly he was on his back. Damian gasped when Dick began to push against him, friction and heat greeting him. Damian couldn't wrap his brain around it, couldn't figure out _why_ , as Dick began to roll his hips, his lips moving faster against his. Hotter. Damian flinched as Dick's hand reached between them, his hand wrapping around both of them, stroking them together. Damian was shuddering, biting his bottom lip as he tried to restrain his voice, his back arching.

Dick's body was leaned in close, their kiss separating for a moment long enough for Damian to realize he had been breathless, and long enough to realize Dick's had grown ragged.

"I don't hate you," Dick breathed.

Damian's eyes opened.

"Do you really think that?" Dick said absently, talking as if pondering out loud. Damian thought back on the words he had spat in hopes of driving Dick away, remembering them, and this time he listened. "Do you really think I would have stayed if I hated you?"

Dick didn't say anything else, didn't demand an answer, he just pulled him in closer.

Dick buried his face next to Damian's, breathing in the smell of the younger's hair, still damp from his shower. Dick removed his hand, bringing it up, fingers brushing at the hair behind Damian's ear before travelling down, the fingers hooking in the collar of Damian's sleepshirt and Dick whispered, his lips moving against his protégé's ear, "I want to _hear_ you."

The blood rushed to Damian's face. Dick kissed Damian's exposed throat, at first lightly, but soon he was sucking at it, his teeth grazing against his sensitive skin. Damian exhaled softly, almost like a sigh. And then the teeth pressed down, just enough, and Dick got what he wanted. Damian arched into the bite, making an unfiltered noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan. He's wrapping his arms around Dick's body. His hands slipping underneath the shirt, running up his back, feeling the warmth of his body.

Then suddenly Dick is tugging his waistband even further down, beginning to pull them down to Damian's knees. And Damian was suddenly aware of Dick's breath against his heated skin. Damian's body felt warm, so warm.

"I'm the one that's sorry," Dick's lips murmured against his throat, and Damian opened his eyes. There's nothing to see past Dick, just the ceiling of the Cave that seemed to stretch endlessly until it faded to nothing. All Damian can pay attention to is Dick, the sound of his voice, the fingers fumbling and pulling at his clothes, his breath fanning against his skin.

And Damian felt his abandon slipping away, melting. He reached down to help remove his own shirt, even reached to touch Richard again. This time his touch less exploratory, more desirous. Even began to believe that it was not just a lie after all.

Dick sat up, bringing Damian's body with him, and heat rushed to Damian's face because it's almost embarassing to be sitting in Dick's lap like this—hard and exposed. And Dick's hands brushed over his body, the calluses and scrapes on his hands rough as he touched over his shoulders, his muscles, his chest. Damian's body felt extra sensitive, unused to feeling hands on his body that weren't his own. Dick reached behind him, fingertips brushing down Damian's spine before, suddenly, he's pressing inside of him.

Damian stifled a groan, digging his fingers into Dick's back, not expecting it, not even sure if he's ever even imagined it.

"I shouldn't be doing this," Dick said, sounding uncertain, but he hasn't stopped. Damian wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Chose not to say anything. Too afraid to say the wrong thing. And meanwhile Dick's fingers pushed in, penetrating him deeper, filling him, and even though his body can block a dull pain like this, it's still odd-feeling. Still new. And Damian's face flushed deeply, because even in his darkest desires, Damian still shied away from these types of acts.

He felt torn between pulling himself out of Richard's reach or closer—wanting to get away from the feel of being penetrated, yet wanting to slip deeper into Dick's kiss. Dick's mouth and hands moved easily, familiarly, and it was hard for Damian to not think of how many times Dick has probably done this before. How many times he had someone in his arms, eager and wanting. But Damian is sighing and moaning softly, the pleasure rising in him even as he doesn't entirely understand what his body is reacting to, or even what is being done to it.

Richard's embrace was warm, his hand brushing against Damian's chest, the fingers teasing his body. And Damian felt a deep heat in his body, desires of want filling his head, a recklessness and adrenaline-based desire consuming him all too familiarly. Their lips met, and Damian went a little further, craving the feel of the velvet tip of Dick's tongue meeting his, their mouths wet and hot, wanting to suck his lip between his until they're both groaning.

Dick relinquished his hold, allowing Damian to lay on his back, and Damian watches him carefully.

He ducked his head down. Damian grabbed for Dick's shirt in surprise, the fabric pulling into his grip. Dick took him inside of his mouth and Damian couldn't hold back the moan, heat rising to his face. Dick went further, swallowing more of him, enveloping Damian's erection with a warm, wet heat.

And as Dick bobbed his head, Damian wasn't sure what to do, never having experienced this type of pleasure before. His hands clenched and unclenched, embarrassed by the almost desperation of his own voice as he cried out again. Trying to compose himself.

Richard's fingers slipped in again, but the pleasure Damian was receiving felt too great for him to notice anything else. The fingers seemed to move with more purpose, thrusting in and out of him, giving him pleasure. Dick's fingers curled inside of him, causing Damian to jolt in place, a spark of pleasure running up his spine.

Damian squirmed slightly, melting in Dick's ministrations, unsure of whether or not he'd be able to handle more. Dick's mouth was perfect, the tongue running up his length, swallowing inch by inch at a perfect pace.

Damian was shaking by the time Dick let up, nearly close to climaxing. Without saying a word, Dick removed his fingers. Before Damian can say anything else, Dick's hands are running up Damian's thighs.

Dick positioned himself between Damian's legs, and as his legs are spread, Damian feels flustered, embarrassed by the position and how exposed he is. But Dick's breath was a little shorter, a little more uneven, like he didn't want to wait.

When he started to press forward, Damian winced, immediately reaching and grabbing the arm that Dick was using to steady himself, his hand clenching tightly around him. Dick paused for a second but then continued. Damian clenched his eyes tight, not expecting the feeling. Not expecting the small sense of pain, even though his abilities were trying to combat that pain.

"It's stupid and wrong of me, isn't it?" Dick said, as if wondering out loud. Damian wasn't sure what he was talking about, almost assumed that he was talking about their actions, but Dick continued to press forward, every inch of him sinking deeper into Damian. Hot, thick. Wanting. And Dick continued talking, every word soft like a whisper. "I was just so afraid. You were growing up so fast. And everyone I cared about was just slipping away from me."

Damian wasn't sure how to respond. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but a groan escaped from him as Richard sunk in fully. And Damian's body shuddered, having never felt anything like this. He felt full, so full. Richard was hot, deep inside of him, stretching him. Dick made a low groan, a guttural sound that was almost lustful, and Damian felt a wave of heat and arousal going through him.

Dick started moving, thrusting inside of him slowly over and over, pacing himself lightly. Damian's body tried to adjust to Richard inside of him, but Dick's hands were still running over his body, palming over Damian's cock, teasing over his chest, and Damian was lost in the warmth of Richard's touch. The sensuality of it.

"I just burned so many bridges," Dick said. His hand was moving over Damian's cock, he's looking down and watching the member twitch in his hands. And even though Dick is looking straight at him, Damian does not shy away, arching his back into Dick's touch. "I didn't want to lose you either. And the years went by, and every year you just seemed further and further away. And I had to wonder, why? Why did it bother me so much?"

Dick's words were beginning to sink in. Damian listened, his heart racing. And Dick's moving a little faster as Damian's soft sighs and moans began to increase in frequency. His body is quickly adjusting to his size, beginning to find pleasure, especially as Dick began to stroke him. Damian was shivering with Richard inside of him, torn between moving his hips towards Richard's hand or moving back to meet his thrusts.

"Everyone else came and went," Dick said, his voice a little breathy as they began to move more. He thrusts in deep, fully, and Damian doesn't withhold a moan. He's shaking now, shaking with pleasure. Cock trembling, ready to spill over Richard's hand. "I've had to say goodbye. I've had to let go. But it was just _this_ , the one thing I didn't want to give up."

In his haze, Damian managed to listen to the words, and he found himself daring to look up at Richard. Richard looked back, and even though Damian couldn't see his face with the cowl on, he can sense the deep layer of emotion in his words. Richard sighed deeply.

"I just didn't want to let go this one time. Didn't want to let go of this bratty, know-it-all, sidekick of mine. The only one who gets me worked up over nothing. The only one who seems to mess with my common sense." His breath seemed to waver, the shadows over his face giving the subtle indication that he was bowing his head a little lower. "The only one that stuck around."

Damian let the words settle in, a tightness welling inside of his chest. His hands ran up Richard's arms, finding their way to his shoulders, wrapping around his neck. And even though he couldn't find the words to say in response, he hoped that would enough. He hoped that Richard would understand.

The shame and the guilt began to fade. Their bodies were so closely intertwined, the kisses against his neck, his cheek, his ear so soft that Damian began to forget. Forget about the pain. He focused on Richard's breath fanning against his skin, focused on the heat where their bodies joined.

Damian trembled slightly as sudden, intense pleasure began to course through his body from Richard's thrusts, the angle of their position changing as their bodies drew in close.

And it was strange, because for as long as this had been going on, it wasn't until that moment that Damian truly _felt_ Richard inside of him.

And as Damian gripped tighter and the their bodies wound closer together, his actions became freer. He wasn't afraid to gasp, wasn't afraid to cry out. Every secret seemed to fade away until it was just him. Him, true and honest. Uninhibited. Unafraid.

Unafraid to lean in and kiss him. Unafraid to taste his skin or suck on his lip. And Dick responded to every bit of it.

Dick was moving faster now, the noises of their bodies joining becoming louder and louder. Dick buried his face in the crook of Damian's neck, his hot breath touching Damian's skin. His hand moved between their bodies, stroking Damian, and even though the movement is a bit awkward its enough to bring Damian to the brink.

"Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," Damian said, and it almost feels like a confession.

And then he was shaking, heat rushing through him, and he cried out as he finally reached his climax. He's trembling, shaking, and Dick began to slow, looking a bit unsure. He's still inside of him, still hard.

"It's okay," Damian said, even though every nerve on his body seemed to be on fire. He winced a little as Dick pushed in again, his body overly sensitive.

"Can I take off the mask?" Dick asked.

Despite everything, there's a moment of hesitation. Damian was still terrified to look him in the eye, and even in that moment after everything that had happened, fear began to sink in.

"Please," Dick breathed.

And Damian moved his hands to comply, but his fingers pause on the buttons that safely release the cowl. He was still unsure. But then suddenly Dick is touching his face, drawing up his gaze, and Damian understood what he was doing. Face to face, Damian feels unprotected. Unguarded. And yet, his heart beat faster.

Because Dick was looking at him.

Damian's hands moved in closer, finishing the deed they set out to do, pulling back the cowl. Damian wanted to see him too.

Their eyes finally met. Blue sinking into blue. And Damian saw it, saw it as Dick slowly smiled. Like they're greeting each other after a long time of separation. He saw the sparkle. And it took him back, took him back to older times. Times when they laughed, they fought, they ran. Times of snow dripping off the tips of his hair.

"Beautiful," Dick said, and he _always_ made it sound so simple. They kissed again and Damian let him finish. As Dick made his final thrusts, Damian hands ran over his skin.

The scars. The bullet marks. His hair, a few strands beginning to gray. Dick's eyes, dark underneath his heavy eyelids. So weary. Aged so fast underneath the cowl. Scarred so fast underneath the cowl.

But it's him.

It's him.


	7. Epilogue

**A/N** : This epilogue will take place several years after the last chapter, right after the events of "Damian, Son of Batman".

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

A snowflake stirred in the air, one amongst many, swooping in a big arc across the sky. Indecisively it fell, moving this way and that. It fluttered in the air before tumbling downwards with the rest, landing gently on the ground.

It was crushed underneath the boot of a man. He hauled a sealed, unmarked crate off to a truck. He continued the assembly line, crate after crate after crate being hauled. Off to the side, two men talked. The air was cold, the man who spoke was constantly wiping his nose, looking foolish even as he stood tall in all black.

Damian hadn't moved from his spot for an hour. Snow had begun to collect on the shoulders of his jacket and his cowl. He finally moved to sweep the snow off his jacket. As he remembered why he wore it, a distant memory came to him.

 _I hate this thing_ , were the words _he_ had said, referring to a cape. And it had been a night almost identical to this one—a quiet, cold, winter night, chasing down arms dealers in Gotham.

Except this time, Damian was alone.

This time, he was the one who wore the cowl.

Damian buried the memory. He was letting his mind wander and there were certain places he didn't want his mind to go. Not now. Not ever.

Not since then.

The arms dealers packed the last of the crates. Damian had been sure to count every single one. As the truck was packed up and began to take off, Damian knew it was time. Along with counting the crates, he had been careful to keep an eye on the men who were working this operation. There were twelve.

 _Easy-peezy_ , a voice echoed in his mind. It hurt to smile but it had come unbidden. Damian shook his head to himself, not understanding why he was feeling so nostalgic all of a sudden. It was a hard feeling to escape. It was a ghost that traced his every step, every day, everywhere he went. Time had passed, and while the hurt never went away, he had gotten better at pretending that it wasn't there.

Perhaps it was just the nature of the season. There was something oddly contemplative about the winter. Each breath of cold air felt heavy, and the remembrance of breathing meant remembering every moment that had ever made him feel alive.

And thus, the memories of that voice were unavoidable.

Damian waited until his targets were relatively in the same area. And that's when he made his attack.

He tossed the smokebomb over the edge of the building, landing in the midst of the crowd of people. Damian shot his grappling hook, swinging down into the crowd below. A few were able to spot him in the smoke but were unable to fight back as he knocked them out. He had managed to take out a few before the smoke began to clear.

Guns started firing blindly in his direction. One hit him, causing him to grit his teeth in pain, but he paid it no mind.

It would heal.

He knocked down a gunman, pulling away his firearm and butting him in the head with it. It was a strong, heavy blow, and the man was knocked to the ground bleeding. Damian saw his chest moving, indicating he was alive, and that was the only confirmation he needed, not caring about anything else that might have happened.

Even as the smoke cleared, they were no match for him. They could face him, shoot at him, but many were stricken with fear—especially as Damian quickly charged through their bullets, unfazed by the pain. Each of them fell easily, unable to match his brute strength and speed. He took them out effectively and quickly but without the grace of efficiency—he was all too rough, his hits far too excessive and violent, but it got the job done. Those that were brave enough to face him lasted a moment longer but were punished the most severely. One of them got his arm broken—followed by the second when he tried to aim the gun anyways. The other got his jaw broken, his teeth scattering in the snow.

By the time Damian was finished, all of the men were too broken to escape. If they did manage to make it out, he had already seen their faces, and he would find them again. Not bothering to tie them up, especially as the GCPD had already been alerted to their locations, he quickly moved onto his final target: the truck.

He quickly got to the batmobile. The truck was already being tracked by his computers. The distance between them was at a sizable difference but Damian had a plan. As he put the car in drive, his mind wandered again. To a time where he had only been a passenger in this vehicle, with a cut on his hand.

 _Let me see_. The memory of the hands that grasped his injured one used to make his heart beat faster. He no longer blushed like a teenager at the memory, he just felt bitter and ashamed of the arguments that had followed those moments. Most of his memories had been tainted by guilt.

He glanced over at the screen in the dash of the batmobile, showing the location of the truck. Damian watched the blinking dot carefully, his eyes switching back and forth from the road he was speeding on to the screen. Finally, the truck was in position, and that's when Damian punched a few buttons on his dash.

He had caught up enough to where he could see the explosion in the distance. The truck spun, losing traction and toppling over onto its side. Damian pulled over next to the truck, climbing out of the batmobile and heading towards the damaged vehicle.

It was a low-grade explosion that he had set. He had tons of them set throughout the city. It was just enough to get the truck to come to a complete stop. He moved towards the burning vehicle, prying open the door. The man inside was knocked out but appeared to be breathing. He had cuts all over his body from the broken glass—blood was pouring from a cut near his hairline, dripping down his temple in long streams. Damian unbuckled and dragged him out of the car, hauling him like dead weight over his shoulder and carrying him far enough away from the truck that if it set off from the fire, there'd be nothing to worry about.

The GCPD finally caught up, arriving onto the scene.

"What the hell happened here?" Barbara said incredulously as the firemen worked to put out the flames in the street. Her police force moved to check on the smuggler.

Barbara took in the scene before finally spinning herself around—nearly bumping into Damian. Upon seeing him, she tilted her head back, rolling her eyes in disbelief.

"Do you enjoy making my life difficult?" she asked.

Damian didn't smile.

"Why do I even ask?" she said, grumbling.

He agreed to meet her at the end of the night on the rooftop of the police station. They met there often, nearly every night. It was the only place they could speak in private. As for the reasons why, Damian had his guesses, but he wasn't certain of a particular one. It just felt like tradition at this point. Perhaps they were following the legacies of their fathers, or perhaps somewhere along the line, they had just become a family of their own.

He had little time to spend on her chewing him out, and frankly he wanted to get the conversation over and done with, so he met her there as soon as she finished up at the scene. There, she gave him a piece of her mind.

"You do know that this is unacceptable right? Do you have any idea how people are reacting?" she said.

"They're afraid," Damian answered. Barbara sighed, exasperated.

"Worse. They _admire_ you. My force thinks they should take after your example—the GCPD has more cases of excessive force filed against them than they've had in _years_."

"Did you arrest the other perps?"

"Look, it's not that I'm _not_ thankful that you haven't hand-delivered the biggest arms dealers in the city, it's just your methods. But yes, to answer your question, I sent some people over there the minute you informed me. It was taken care of," she said. Crossing her arms, reluctantly, she confessed, "I am allowed to worry about you, you know. If we don't have each other, then who do we have?"

She was right. They were the only ones that were left—not just in the sense that they were the only ones fighting crime in Gotham, but in many ways. Their fathers were incapacitated. They had brothers who still would not come home. Their friends were dead. Their lovers, nothing but memories.

She looked up at the sky. The snowflakes were falling down on her. "It's really coming down, isn't it?" Her voice a tad bit quieter, she said, "I'm fine with that."

Damian also looked up at the sky, watching the snow come down. Gently.

 _Beautiful_ , a voice whispered in his mind. And on what must have been a coincidence, a snowflake landed on the corner of his lip.

"This time is difficult for me—the changing of the seasons," Barbara said, continuing to look up at the falling snowflakes. "He was born on the first day of spring, you know."

Damian was quiet.

"He never told people the date, he just always said _the first day of spring_. He said it almost like he was _bragging_ ," she said with a small laugh.

A dull pain began to grow inside of Damian's chest. A pain he had thought he had learned to ignore.

The one pain that would not heal.

"When you hurt for a long time, eventually you just become numb. I've stopped worrying about the things that ended it. The things that I could have done." She closed her eyes. "The things that I _wish_ I had done." She paused for a moment and reopened her eyes, "But even though I've become used to it, there are moments where I remember certain things, and it hurts all over again. Like spring. I _dread_ spring."

She gazed out at nothing at all, the wind blowing back her hair, her face pale. Her eyes had a weariness to them that was so familiar that Damian felt upset. So many people he had known had carried those eyes, many of whom he called family.

"It's so unfair," she whispered, and Damian silently agreed.

Finally, Damian spoke, "I heard it."

Barbara paused before looking at him in confusion. "Heard what?"

Damian looked out at the city. The dust of snow flickering in the air seemed to dull the lights of the city, but beneath the fog was still Gotham. Gotham, as dangerous and violent as ever. "The bomb. From that day. I heard it."

Barbara stopped. She pulled Damian by the arm so he'd kneel, so they could look at each other fully. Her glossy eyes scanned all over his face, trying to read him, trying to search for answers even with the barrier of the cowl. Damian finally looked her in the eye.

"I thought he heard it too."

"You're lying," she said. But even so, a sense of dread filled her eyes, because she didn't know that for certain. Only one person could ever read Damian, in ways that Damian couldn't even understand himself.

"I assumed he knew. I didn't help him."

"What are you telling me?" she said, her voice steadily rising. "That you _let_ him die?"

Damian fell silent again.

Barbara shook her head at him, a deep mixture of emotions passing through her face. Horror. Sadness. Anger.

"No one else believed in you," she said, her voice cracking. "Everyone thought you should have quit, back when you were Robin. But you stuck to the rules, you never killed. And through all this time, that was the thing that stopped me from cuffing you. No matter how careless you got, no matter how many people you hurt, I never stopped you because I believed that you were a lot of things—but not a _killer_. And now you're telling me that it was all _false_? That of all people, you—"Barbara stopped herself short, clenching her jaw, not wanting to risk saying _his_ name. "I trusted you."

Damian didn't know what to think. Barbara had better judgment than that. She was too logical, too calculating. If Damian had been on his own, Barbara would have made sure he was in Blackgate. But he wasn't alone, not back then. Back then he had _him_ , and _he_ was the only protection from Barbara.

Barbara had to have known that he was never a trustworthy person.

Perhaps there was some truth to her words, perhaps she did trust him. But Damian couldn't help but feel the real underlying words were:

 _He trusted you_.

"I know," was all Damian could manage to say.

"After he died, you were _there_. You _listened_ to me. Sometimes you seemed like the only person that understood." Her sadness slowly turned to anger. Her hands clenched the armrests of the chair she was confined in. "And when I was in the hospital…"

When everything went wrong. When Barbara's miracle came shattering down. And Damian was there, even though they had never been that close. She was in the hospital bed, unsure of where her career was going, positive that she would never walk again. Damian could count two times where he and Barbara actually touched—the first being at the funeral when she hugged him, and the second being when he sat by her hospital bed and she took his hand.

"I know," Damian said, and the addition to the count of people he had betrayed began to weigh on his shoulders.

Barbara looked away, and though she tried to make it subtle, Damian saw her wipe her eye on her sleeve. She looked back at Damian, vengeance in her eyes.

"You know I can't let you get away with this," she said, her jaw clenching.

Damian knew. That was why he said it.

Gotham was growing violent, uncontrollable. More than ever. The city needed someone who could keep up and Batman could be that person. But in order to do that, Batman couldn't play clean. The fundamentals would be the same—to never kill, to fight for justice. But to keep up with the new Gotham, the new Batman had to be willing to get his hands dirty, to bend morality, to be a little more reckless.

And that's exactly who Damian was.

Damian had to stop playing nice with police. People would be bound to notice the new Batman's changes in character, particularly the bad and the ugly, and that would call into question Barbara's lack of initiative to take him down. Already, Gotham was becoming sicker and sicker of vigilantes. It was inevitable, even after Barbara took over as commissioner, and it was as much of a way of protecting Barbara as it was hurting her.

In the end, he was done with secrets. He was being honest.

And maybe, if he had to be really, _really_ honest, it was a tad bit personal. Because it was impossible for Damian to look at _her_ without thinking of _him_.

"I'm sorry," he managed.

"Every law you've bent, every person you've ever hurt, every life you've put at risk, the things that you've done—I'm _finished_ defending you. I'm _finished_ believing in you. The next time I see you, whether it's beating someone to a bloody pulp or setting off another one of your _weapons_ in the city, I'm arresting you."

"Goodbye, Gordon," he said, reaching for his grappling hook. He didn't bother to look back.

It was six o'clock and the sun had already set. The night had just begun and already, Damian could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance. In the building he passed, he heard an infant's cry. In the street, the sound of a vagrant's change in a jar. A symphony of despair that signalled the work that needed to be done to rebuild Gotham, a myriad of sounds that just barely drowned out the noises inside of his head.

Gotham. His inheritance. But this time, he was going to do things his own way.

Damian pulled his coat a little closer to his body, looking at the sky. The moon. Quick to rise and slow to set. Thinking of it all, he huffed a little to himself, his breath a puff of frost in the air.

That was the hardest part about winter:

The nights kept getting longer.

* * *

 **A/N** : Thank you so much for taking the time to read this story. It's been a long time since I wrote this but it still has a special place in my heart. I know the ending made a lot of people unhappy but I didn't want to change the story too much from what happened in Morrison and Kubert's stories, so the character death, and the divide between Damian and Barbara, was inevitable. Even so, I hope you still enjoyed it.

I'm sorry this took so long to upload. I promise I will have the rest of my stories up in much shorter time! If you don't feel like waiting to read my other stories, you can find me on AO3 under the username Lacemonster. Thank you!


End file.
